Son of Poseidon
by wryter501
Summary: Two princes from very different kingdoms set out to destroy the same monster threatening both their peoples. A high seas adventure, with a dash of Greek mythology for fun! Part 2: "Heir of Aetlantys" - Arthur will need the help of his unique friend to reclaim something stolen from him.
1. Two Princes

**Son of Poseidon**

 **Chapter 1: Two Princes**

 _The prince entered his father's inner sanctum - private audience, presence requested - with a sense of apprehension and anticipation._

 _"Father?" he began, doing his best to keep his voice steady._

 _"The rumors have been confirmed," the king told him without preamble, studying a physical representation of the kingdom's territory, the surrounding lands and waters. "The creature is real, a dangerous threat to lives and livelihoods. It has killed several dozen of our people now, and must be stopped."_

 _"Yes, Father," the prince agreed, his heart beating a little higher with the feeling of shared responsibility, ready obedience and courage to do what was necessary. To face the danger. "What are your orders?"_

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Uther turned from the map on the wall. "You will go to sea," he said, fixing his inexorable gaze on Arthur. "Choose your crew carefully – not just sailors, but warriors. I recommend Leon as first mate, but the others are up to you."

"One of the battleships?" Arthur asked.

"No. It's not another ship you'll be facing, but a sea creature. You'll want speed and agility as well as strength in your craft… take the _Medusa_."

"And Gaius?" Arthur asked, stepping closer to the map as his father beckoned peremptorily. "His apprentice is capable of fulfilling the role of court physician in our absence, Gaius speaks very highly of her. And we may have need of Gaius' experience and knowledge in this quest."

Uther considered, then allowed, "You may give him the option of accompanying you, but remember, Arthur, you don't command him. At his age he may very well decide that a sea-quest is not for him."

"Riding a deck is easier than riding a horse," Arthur protested, grinning, and was rewarded by a twinkle in the king's eye.

"But a horse won't make you seasick," his father retorted. "And Gaius has done neither for several years. Now, I suggest you start down the coastline, from Low-croft to White Post, gathering what intelligence there is to be had on the creature and the waters, but don't delay too long. Every day our ships remain in harbor is a loss, for our peoples' pockets as well as our own treasury."

"Yes, Father," Arthur said, already beginning to mentally catalog the distance to the port where the Medusa rode at anchor, the time of travel, the supplies needed, the expected weather during this season. The crew he wanted. "I won't fail you."

"I know, Arthur," the king said, gripping his shoulder and giving him a slight shake. "I'm proud of you, son."

…..*….. …..*….. …*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Balinor hovered over the slab depicting the topography of their realm, the ridges and valleys and abyssals to the edge of explored territory beyond.

"I'll take some of our best fighters and storm-crafters myself," he decided. "Along with the horn, and hope to take the creature by surprise. I'll leave the royal seal with your mother, but I'm counting on you to manage the details of daily administration in my absence."

The prince struggled with his desire to be obedient and dependable, as always, and a new wish, subtle but strong, to prove himself as capable physically and magically, as mentally, of ruling their kingdom as Balinor expected him to, one day.

"I rather thought you might send me along with one of the commanders," he commented, drifting closer to the map-slab, running his fingers along the rough edge that showed the dark maw of the seafloor where the monster was rumored to reside.

"You're no warrior, son," Balinor's tone was truthful and not unkindly, and he did him the courtesy of looking him in the eye – though that probably meant he'd seen the retort that his son bit his tongue on hard enough to draw blood. "One day."

"That is what you said," the prince kept his voice even with an effort, "when the Great White menaced our eastern shoreline. That is what you said when the border-dwellers brought word of the poison eels in the Sub-Aqua caves."

Balinor reached to squeeze his shoulder sympathetically. "You were too young then, and this isn't the same. This is far more dangerous, and–"

He began to protest, "But I can –"

"And if I am killed," Balinor spoke over him, "you are king. And you will be a wise one and a capable one, I am sure of it. You are smart enough to listen to and make use of your commanders, enforce our decrees with the compassion you get from your mother. But, if I send you on a quest, and something happens to you, what then? I grow old and die with no heir of our blood."

Dyn-emris saw the good judgment of his father's decision, but that only made it harder, to struggle with the hurt pride and deep sharp suspicion of inadequacy in his heart _. I am ready. I need a challenge. I need to test and measure my skills and strength, to know myself._

Or, _My father is right_.

"When do you plan to leave?" he heard himself asking.

"In the morning, as soon as it's light enough to see two fathoms," Balinor answered, shifting to study that unexplored trench that had belched the monster forth.

"I will take my leave of you now, in that case." He tried to hide the turmoil he felt. "May good fortune go with you, Father."

"Dyn –" The king met his gaze with understanding and sympathy in his deep blue eyes, and the prince whirled and fled.

Like he was still as young as his parents seemed to think, he fumed at himself.

He was capable. He was ready, to be on his own. To evaluate a situation for danger and make the best decision, the right choice, even if it was hard.

To wait home at his mother's side as his father went out to battle a threat to their people – again? When others his age might go along as warriors, would he be left behind?

He didn't believe, as Balinor evidently did, that he would be so weak or foolhardy as to get himself killed. But what if this proved his father's last quest? Wouldn't it be better if he gained some experience of the world outside his father's domain, before he was expected to rule it?

The plan was set in his heart almost before he realized he'd made it.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was a dockside tavern like any other, ordinary in the extreme. Not the first they'd visited, though Arthur wearily hoped it might prove the last.

Boot-scuffed floorboards, listing a bit starboard, currently being swept by a drowsy, untidy maid. The rattle-and-toss of dice from the corner table, a trio of men exclaiming over their luck, or lack of it; Gwaine fit right in with those fellows. Which was the idea, after all. Smell of ale, cider, and rum – warm and spicy and stale –

"D'you need a fill-me-up, Master Linus?" Percival asked solicitously, raising the jug to the old sailor who made a company of three at their own corner table, opposite the game. Percival was a bit polite for a place of this questionable nature, but his bulk and shorn head and the scar that interrupted his hairline and left eyebrow made him look the part, at least, if he could keep his polite mouth shut.

" _Master_ Linus," the old man cackled, leering stained teeth at Arthur, who resisted the urge to sit back. Maybe this was a waste of time, but… maybe it wasn't. "Been many a year since I been called _Master_ , young sar," he confided to Arthur.

Linus resembled nothing more than a tanned hide stretched on a bony frame to dry. His skin brown and brittle-looking, the hair on his skull the sparse fringe of fur visible at its edge; his hands were twisted and crabbed from maybe decades of rope-hauling in all kinds of weather. His veracity dubious.

"It's your last voyage we want to hear about," Arthur told the old sailor. "Sole survivor, we were told?"

"Ah, that's the tale," Linus said shrewdly. He spilled a bit of his drink around the edges of the rim, down his chin and shirtfront as he gulped. "Well, y'see. Out in the uncharted Sea of Darkness, every good sailor knows, you risk boiling spots and monsters of the deep – but now one of them has crawled nearer our shores and routes and passages than any of us can live with."

He cackled at his terrible joke, and Arthur very nearly rolled his eyes. Very nearly declared it time for the three of them to move on to another tavern for better luck gaining information. But Linus was the only alleged witness of the creature he'd been sent to kill.

"It's claimed our waters for its own, y'see. Maybe looking for new or fresh or easy hunting – maybe it's old, or injured like a land-beast turned man-eater. Any oar, my last voyage was early days of the creature's reign of terror, and the captain weren't inclined to believe the rumors of ships gone missing. Unexpected storms, inaccurate reef-charts, maybe even a new pirate starting a run. And then we saw it."

Linus put down his mug to gesticulate – and Arthur wondered how many times he'd told this story. How many embellishments he'd added, at each telling.

"Rising up from unmeasured depths, right under us – tentacles fore and aft, port and starboard – tentacles thick as this 'yere table!"

Arthur glanced down, as Percival did - the uneven round table was a long pace across.

"Ye've seen an octopus, I take it, or a squid a few times in yer lives? How the arms writhe and crawl and grip? The monster's arms were over the gunnels faster'n a drawn breath, climbing the main-mast – ah, the groaning of the timbers, and the screaming of the men!

"Captain was picked off first – on purpose or just unlucky. But he weren't the last. Four-five legs was holding the ship, ripping the rigging and canvas, snapping the spars – three-four legs plucking sailors like a man plucks berries from a bush! Two at a time, even, I saw."

"And where did you see this from?" Arthur queried, trying to avoid _skepticism_ in his tone, in favor of _interest_.

The old sailor, rhythm interrupted, jerked upright and cupped a grimy ear with a grimier hand. "Eh?"

"Where were you when the creature attacked your ship?" Arthur asked again.

"Up in the crow's nest," Linus replied promptly.

He sat back and spread his arms, his eyes traveling the rough, stained tabletop with a spark that took Arthur a bit by surprise. It was horror, and memory. And maybe he'd made a performance out of the tale-telling to distance himself from the reality of the experience.

"Maybe it ate its full, tentacles pulling men under, returning to snatch again. Maybe it was angered by some trying to fight back… Thing broke our ship like cracking an egg." Linus mimed the action, but with diminished enthusiasm. "Snap. In half. And the water boiling up in the middle like spilling yolk…"

He glanced at Arthur as if he'd repeated his earlier question.

"The fore half listed, way to starboard, the mast near horizontal. I took my chance and jumped – there was some wreckage just below, already. Piece of the deck, the rail, the hull… something." He gripped his cup again and gulped his ale like it was water. "Sharks. Will follow a trail of blood, and movement. Everyone knows that. So I hung on to that – bit of my ship – and didn't move a muscle. Not a single muscle, hardly even to breathe. I dunno how long. Before I saw the coast and the waves brought me eventual-like to shore."

The dice players shouted incongruously into his pause at some lucky toss – winners exultant, losers protesting.

"Haven't been out on the water since," Linus added, abruptly and truthfully. This wasn't part of the recitation, Arthur thought. There was desolation in the old sailor's mud-colored eyes, longing and regret, for a way of life and earning a living lost. "Nor will I. Not while that thing's around. Lost every friend I had that day, and the cargo. It were going to make my fortune, too."

Tossing his head back, he finished his cup and beckoned for the pitcher from Percival. Arthur pushed his chair back and nodded to his biggest warrior. Turning to the door, he caught Gwaine's eye, and the sound of a soft _clink_ as Percival passed spare coin to Linus.

Out in the street, Arthur squinted to get used to the brightness of the sun again. He waited a moment for his two companions to join him, then headed down towards the wharfs. Behind him, Gwaine asked a question he didn't quite catch in the noise of the street – wooden cart wheels rolling over cobblestones, fishwives calling to their children and each other – but Percival's response was clearer.

"Giant octopus, sounds like. And you?"

"Oh, the octopus whose head is a mile wide?" Gwaine said, and Arthur knew his expression from the tone of his voice. It was the sort of irreverent amusement that had Gwaine blending in so well in places like this. "I got, stories of disappearing islands. Hey, Arthur – if it's not on the map, let's not stop, yeah? Evidently crews land and start cook-fires and so on and wake the thing up and –"

"Wind the thing up?" Arthur suggested, over his shoulder.

"Bit like you in the morning, princess." Arthur pretended to ignore that. "Course, I also got stories of the thing vomiting up its breakfast to lure fresh fish into its mouth for dinner. In that version, though, fisherman can also take advantage of baited waters for a grand catch – if they're willing to risk being chomped themselves when the creature's done waiting."

"Let me guess," Percival said. "No one's done it himself, but knows someone who did?"

"The friend of a friend," Gwaine agreed. "And _he'd_ never lie – surprisingly honest lot, sailors and fishers."

Arthur grunted sardonically as they rounded a slight corner; the end of the dock came into view, down the hill, and the two men standing there to wait. Lancelot and Leon were both too proper and upright for tavern-trawling for information like they'd been doing - everything about Leon screamed _king's-man_ , and Lancelot was so obviously a captain the gutter-dwellers of a seaside town would clam up and scuttle away as soon as look at him. Arthur himself wasn't a great deal better, but he could pass for a rich man's inexperienced son, to be pitied and patronized – and enlightened – by men who made the sea their profession.

"That's not the best of the stories, though," Gwaine added. "You should hear them tell of sirens and selkies." Percival scoffed and Gwaine added, " _Merpeople_."

"Sire!" Leon called, catching sight of them. A bit surprised, maybe, that they were back so early. "What news? What orders?"

"I want to take a look at that map again," Arthur said, joining them. "But I think I may have an idea where this thing hides." That one abyssal that had never been plumbed – not to have it recorded, anyway. It stretched twelve leagues or so, beginning thirty leagues off the southern coast and running roughly south by southeast.

"What's the plan, then?" Gwaine asked, slightly more serious.

"A hatchet for every man, to be carried at all times," Arthur said. Trying to imagine how long it would take a couple of men to hack their way through a rubbery limb as wide around as a tavern table, while it was threshing and yanking and sticking sucker-tight to anything it touched… "And harpoons, stowed convenient for immediate use," he added. "How much black powder are we carrying, Lancelot?"

"Four barrels, sire."

"Get four more," Arthur decided. "And see if a couple of these rowboats can be bought."

"We have a lifeboat," Lancelot reminded him, as an objection.

"I know. We'll post a constant watch, and as soon as it's sighted, we'll take to the boats. Surround it if we can…" _And if we can't, maybe some of us will still survive_. "Hatchets and harpoons – and if it surfaces to tear the ship apart, that black powder set alight ought to give it a belly-ache at least."

"How soon do you want to weigh anchor?" Lancelot asked. "There's a storm brewing to the northeast, maybe a three-day gale."

"We'll leave as soon as we have those supplies," Arthur said. "We can ride out the storm off the point of Land's End – and head out to deep water after it blows over."

A soft chorus of "Aye, sir."

Arthur turned a moment longer to look across the wind-whipped, sun-tipped bay toward the low blue-purple of the horizon. And shivered.

Because if it was as easy as that to kill the sea-beast, someone would already have done it.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The sea-prince agonized over whether or not to see his mother, before he left their home.

He was not so young or naïve to think there was no possibility he might not return from his self-imposed quest, but he wasn't yet so mature as to be able to hide from her the feelings that might give him away. The chagrin of being left out of his father's plan, the fatalistic determination to go against orders, the anxiety over the risks he knew he'd face alone.

Dyn-emris was afraid that Hunith would see, and _know_ – and she'd stop him. That thought made him feel very young – and all the more determined to prove that he wasn't.

He did, however, pay Freya one last visit.

She was in one of the inner, upper caverns of the palace, that which stood above the water-level. Being open-air, it was most often used for the preparation and service of meals for anyone in current residence, as it allowed for fancier and more elaborate dishes, the impressive layout of a banquet-table.

Legend told it centuries old, the crusted walls and columns of his home. Submerged and fallen in the Great War of the island, when his ancestors quarreled with their own kin so bitterly that the entire city was lost beneath the waves. The first son of the first son - Trytn of the horn that was the symbol and power-focus of his father's reign – had attempted to raise the palace at least, according to other legends. Only partially successful, before the quakes had begun to destroy what there was, and the endeavor abandoned to preserve what was left below the surface.

Now, the tips of the towers rose above the waves, dashed and rubbed and washed into shapeless reef-rocks that the ships of the humans avoided as another barren obstacle dangerous to their wooden hulls. A single watchman waited to alert the inhabitants of a braver vessel's approach, but as far as Dyn-emris could figure, a man would have to climb to the jagged top of the dry rock to look deliberately down the narrow and obscured chimney and blocking his own light to see – what?

It was so improbable a chance as to be well-nigh impossible. _He_ wasn't worried about the eventuality, and he'd heard the guards commenting that it was the most-boring and therefore the least-desirable of all their duties.

As it lacked several hours until the evening meal, there were only a few present, occupied in a leisurely way with various chores of preparation. The chamber was a stone's hard toss wide; while their conversation wouldn't be _private_ , it also wouldn't be _overheard_.

He broke surface slowly and carefully, approaching her obliquely – to see and study her in a whimsical might-be-the-last-time way. His decision to go made him feel very noble and tragic – and a bit scared, wasn't too late to change his mind, but _no_ – and wish that he might confide in her for a bit of comfort.

The rubble of upper floors and ceiling alike had fallen long ago into a mound in the center of the tower, around which various more-or-less-even surfaces were utilized for the banquet-chamber of the sunken palace. He watched her lean on one elbow as she plied the short curved blade of a flint knife against the stubbornness of the oyster in her other hand, gracefully half-in and half-out of the water. A woven basket-ful of the shelled delicacy waited at her hip, a tarnished silver tray – relic of their ancestry - lined with dried weed likewise at her elbow to receive the half-shell.

Purple suited her, he thought now, and always had. The deep almost-black color of warm midnight shot with a shimmer like stars at the delicately-fringed tip of her tail, fading upward along her lithe body to a soft pale lavender glow in the hollow of her throat, like the inside of one of those shells she handled so dexterously,

"If I cut myself, it's your fault," she told him over one shoulder, showing the corner of a smile.

He huffed in mock-annoyance at being caught out, and discarded stealth to move up beside her, leaning over the rough stone slab she was using for a preparation surface. "How did you know I was there?"

Her dark eyes twinkled at him. "You were watching me," she reminded him archly. "I can always tell when you're watching me."

"It bothers you?" He smiled because he already knew the answer.

A wave of faint pink crossed the skin of her face, and she lifted one hand to move a lock of tousled damp hair with the back of her wrist, to keep the mess on her fingers from tangling the strands further. She flipped her tail only slightly to emphasize her point. "And you were making ripples."

"That was not me," he protested, but grinning – they both knew he was lying; he was such a poor liar he didn't often try. Neglecting to mention something, he was better at, but hiding his feelings was next to impossible for him. He supposed he'd have to work on that, for the time when he would be king. "Freya…"

"Don't," she stopped him immediately, proving his inability to hide his feelings and thoughts. Especially from those he cared about, and who knew him best. "We can't, we're too young – and you know you shouldn't, anyway."

"I don't care about that."

None of the other girls attracted his attention the way Freya did, and it was more than her subtle natural beauty. It was her refusal to be intimidated by his rank, the assurance that his title didn't enter into her enjoyment of his company. It was how she could tease and laugh – or listen in serene stillness – how she could take an incoherent rant or a few uncommunicative grunts and sum up what was bothering him – or delighting him – in a single intuitive sentence.

"You should." She didn't look up at him, eyes on her work. "You'll have to marry from among the noble families, not –"

"There's no law requiring that. When my father chose my mother –"

"That's _why_ , though, don't you see?" She pitched an oyster that wouldn't open down the slab that tilted between them, and it splashed into the water beyond. "Everyone wondered, if common blood would dilute the magic of your ancestors, and –"

"It didn't." He was irritated now, himself, though not with her. They _were_ young, which was why they hadn't yet addressed the question specifically, but now that he was going on a dangerous mission, he didn't want to leave having said nothing, or after an argument. He spread his arms to offer himself as proof. "The magic is just as strong for me as for my father."

"They say he got lucky."

Very rarely, Freya was stubborn – _Why now?_ he pleaded silently.

"They say you'll _have_ to marry from the higher blood to be sure _your_ son –"

A flick of muscle against the resistance of the water he was still half-submerged in, and he surged forward, hands bracing the weight of his upper body on the rock slab, to capture her lips with his. It wasn't their first kiss – nor their second – but the move took her by surprise. Her resistance soon melted and she returned the kiss – though briefly, and sadly, before drawing back.

"I will choose," he told her firmly. "When it is time, I will choose."

"What if I don't say yes?" It was a feeble joke, spoken so mournfully, but he smiled anyway.

"Then I'll have to find a way to persuade you."

She didn't meet his eyes, but her lips quirked in a smile so sweet he dared another light kiss. "Go on with you," she scolded fondly. "Some of us have work to do, today."

He swallowed. _Goodbye_ was not good enough, suddenly, but anything else might be suspiciously significant. He settled for a light, "Love you."

She tossed her head, but she was smiling as he ducked below the surface again.

Will, too, he'd wondered about. Because if his friend guessed, there was no way Dyn-emris would be going alone. But Will had no magic, and the prince knew that was likely his only chance against a beast even his father would take warriors with him to face. Then again, Will's position as perimeter-sentinel was right on his way out of familiar territory – he hoped that wouldn't get Will in trouble when his departure was discovered. As it would be, sooner or later.

"Where are you headed?" Will called out, startling him. He hadn't seen his friend resting half-hidden among the rocks that rose from the sea-floor.

"Out." He gestured nonchalantly, but paused in place.

Will resumed sharpening his knife – an action which he'd probably suspended on seeing Dyn-emris approach, as the ripples of the action and friction would have given his position away. Even to a friend, and Will did enjoy a bit of harmless mischief like startling his prince.

"By yourself?" Dyn-emris gave him a look – amused condescension – and Will gurgled a laugh. "Magic doesn't make you invincible, you know?" he added. "When are you going to be back?"

"When are you going to be off-duty?" he shot back.

"Not til late. It's too bad, I'll probably miss dinner."

"That is too bad," Dyn-emris told him, grinning. "Freya was doing oysters."

Will moaned disappointment and longing, but his eyes twinkled. "Really, M, when are you going to be back? I can't let the prince pass into unpatrolled waters without at least an idea."

"It –" he hesitated – "might be a while."

Will shoved himself out of the rocks – his muddy-orange coloring helped to conceal him at his post - to come closer. "How mysterious. But Freya's doing dinner – so you're not sneaking out for a romantical reason – where _are_ you going, and why?"

"I can't tell you." He attempted a princely aloof, combined with a parental-style eyebrow.

"Hm." Will looked him over skeptically, glanced behind him to either side to emphasize the prince's lack of companion. "Secret, is it? Official? Does your father know?"

"Who do you think informed me of the situation to begin with?" He tempered his almost-lie with a bit of fond sarcasm. "Don't worry, Will. It's just – something I've got to do, and then I'll be back."

Will watched him a moment more, then spun his knife in his hand to offer hilt-first. "Take this with you, then, I've just finished the second-edge. It's better than yours any day, anyway."

The instinct to scoff was stifled, the gesture recognized for what it was. Dyn-emris yanked the small braided tie fastening his own knife in its double-shoulder harness under his arm, and handed it to Will, replacing it with his friend's gift. "Thank you. Very much."

"Take care of yourself," Will told him. "Seriously. Because your father will _gut_ me if anything happens to you."

"It won't."

More promise than assurance, but with another grin, he left his friend behind and headed out into the chill and murk and anticipation and danger, beyond inhabited territory.

 **A/N: So here's the first chapter of the new fic. As you can see, it's going to be** _ **very**_ **different; mostly it will take place off-shore. I'm not the first to write a merperson!merlin, or this sort of enemy/monster/challenge. But I think a few of the other elements of this story will be unique… don't let the difference in Merlin's species or name put you off the story, though, I'll 'fix' it later on, you'll see. (spoiler! *wink*)**

 **Let me see, what else. No other characters from the series will be entering the story later on, sorry – who you see is who you get. Also, updates posted as written – when I have 'em, you'll have 'em. This one feels a bit short, but the next section takes place a few days later on, and I did say I would try to get it out today, and I do try to be a writer of my word…**


	2. Man Overboard

**A/N: This is a bit back-and-forth. But necessary for the situation, I think… Let me know if anybody gets seasick… *wink***

 **Chapter 2: Man Overboard**

He lingered in the shadow of the humans' ship, fully aware of the danger he was in, if he was discovered.

Yesterday, as the sky lightened gradually and slightly from the storm, before dimming toward sundown again, he'd avoided the bay and the port on the tip of the land-peninsula, instead skirting the island a few leagues off-shore. Sand and scrub-brush he'd seen from a few quickly surreptitious glances above-water, but he had no idea if there was more to the interior of the island to attract humans.

He rather doubted it.

The ship he'd found at anchor there had either come from open sea – unlikely, as his father had reported, no human vessel had been left untouched by the creature – or it was heading there.

Two days of traveling and thinking had brought him to the conclusion, he could not simply approach the monster in the abyssal and challenge it head-on. He needed a plan, and the only one he'd come up with so far was, he needed a distraction. When it rose to attack, he could launch his own at its blindside - if it had one. The ship was perfect, though it made him feel a little sad for the crew of humans.

Even if they would kill him as soon as look at him. That or capture him for torture, or worse. Scientific dissection. Maybe display for entertainment and profit. All the warnings given to the young of his kind, who liked to play in the shallows or closer to the surface.

He shuddered at those thoughts, the water rippling cool and clear around him.

Humans didn't like what they didn't understand, he'd been taught. They feared what they couldn't control. Hate and fear was a dangerous combination.

And then there was the magic.

So he kept his distance, floating in the shadow of the great hull above him, resting lightly on the sand, letting the movement of the water rock his body lightly. He occasionally startled a slow-moving crab or flounder, but he wasn't hunting for a meal just now.

He watched the men move back and forth at tasks incomprehensible to him, and waited. He figured he had two or maybe three days head-start on his father, who would have had to go north to collect his best warriors before rounding toward the great deep trench beyond their patrolled territory. It was possible that Balinor did not know of his son's absence from the palace, even now. He could afford patience, but within limits.

One man in particular he watched. A man with hair like sunlight on the water's surface. A leader, he assumed, since instead of scurrying about tasks like the others, he'd spent a good deal of the morning leaning on the rail, staring out toward the open sea – the abyssal, the monster.

And Dyn-emris couldn't help but admit a curiosity, too.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur rested one hip on the gunnel of the ship's waist and closed his eyes briefly against the glare of the sun, cast into a thousand brilliant sparkles by the breeze ruffling the surface of the water. He listened to the noises of the crew making ship-shape – the rub of rope, the snap of canvas, the creak of oaken timbers, the slang and slur of the sea-crew.

The sun and the salt lay on his skin like a light layer of fabric, not uncomfortably, but he shivered involuntarily, the hairs rising on his arms and nape. That feeling was still there, of a presence undeniable yet unproven.

"Sire," Leon spoke very close to him.

"How are we doing?" Arthur said, glad for the distraction. And a second opinion, even if it was Leon's cautious advice.

"Two hours, perhaps, Lancelot said." They'd dropped anchor just off the island yesterday afternoon, to finish minor repairs after the long storm, take a final stock before commencing the longer voyage. "The long-boat's halfway back."

Arthur turned his head casually to look. Both Percival and Gwaine had made the trip to the shore of the tiny deserted island – ineffectual trip, as it turned out, the bait not taken. The flicker of movement or shadow caught again at the edge of his vision but he resisted the urge to turn his head. It wouldn't help.

"Is it still there?"

Leon shifted to look past Arthur, down into the water. "It is hard to say for sure, Arthur," he said quietly. Honestly. "I wouldn't swear on my honor that something is there at all."

"Percival saw it," Arthur reminded his lieutenant. And he couldn't shake that feeling of being watched, like a trickle of sweat slow and insidious tickling right between his shoulder-blades, where he couldn't reach to scratch.

Leon made a noncommittal noise.

Percival on night-watch, had reported seeing, in the dim lantern-light, the water broken by a round shape, presumed to be unidentified sea-life, rather than inanimate flotsam. _It might have been a large fin_ , the big man had said, _or a turtle… but_. With Arthur's own half-dozen glimpses of something – and considering their mission on this voyage – it was ominous, at the very least.

What if, Arthur hadn't voiced even to Leon, even now, what if it wasn't one enormous creature causing the wrecks, the loss of all hands and cargo? What if…

"The inner hull?" he asked quietly.

"Watertight. No visible damage, no leaks in the sick bay, galley, and berth deck, though of course I couldn't inspect behind the secured cargo in the hold." Leon shifted to watch the long-boat approach, Percival at the oars.

Whatever it was, lingering just out of sight, had not followed the decoy boat to the shallows – though that didn't mean it was harmless and innocent of malevolent intent. Arthur's other worry was that the integrity of the hull might have been compromised from the outside, though he wasn't about to send even a team of swimmers down to check.

"I hate to put to sea with this thing, whatever it is, clinging to us," Arthur told Leon. "Especially on a voyage so dangerous, when all our attention needs to be on the monster."

"What do you want to do?" Leon asked.

Arthur squinted up to the rigging in thought, watched two crew-members adjust the lashing of the topsails to the yard-arm. The criss-cross pattern of the naked lines gave him an idea. Just, one that Leon was not going to like.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He was starting to feel nervous-impatient, as the bright blur of the sun crept higher into the sky, not knowing why the ship delayed. If it wasn't going after all, he needed to figure out a different plan before his father and the other warriors caught up with him.

A shadow rippled across the soft-ridged sand, and he turned slightly to watch, through the wavery-clear medium of three or four fathoms of water. The smaller shadow of the little boat approached like a baby whale to the side of its mother, the sticks they used for propulsion in place of fins cutting down into the water.

He twitched alert. Instead of hauling the baby boat up to the flat surface of the vessel, the men taking on a passenger.

The sun-haired leader descended to the small-boat… Oh, but he didn't stay there. The two others braced the little boat against the broader side of its mother, and the leader dove over the side. Into the water, away from Dyn-emris.

Should he stay unseen in the shadow? Venture out?

What the hell was the man doing? There was no panic in the little shivery ripples the man's movements sent dancing along his nerves through the water. Which reassured Dyn-emris – and made him impatient – and curiosity fairly screamed through him.

The man was fascinating, he was strange… he was _slow_. He stayed at the surface, keeping his head in the air – and below, his body forked so oddly into appendages that were skinny and rigid and angular. Like a second pair of arms, slightly longer and thicker and so _useless_ in the water it was almost funny.

Dyn-emris followed warily, trying to figure out the leader's intentions. He stayed very close to the sandy bottom, moving from the shadow of the ship to the bright shimmer of the sun – as hard to see through as dark or murky waters when one was above the surface; it would help conceal him from those who remained on the two boats.

A faint shadow floated above him; little skitters of reaction alerted him, like a handful of pebbles tossed in the water. He paid the strange sensation no mind, trying to make sense of the way the man's lower limbs bucked and struggled – and now the man's course curved not toward the island, but around one of the ends of the ship. What _was_ he doing? Dyn-emris held himself in place to watch with a flicker of tail-fin and his fingertips on the undisturbed sand only inches below his chest.

Something brushed his ear, and he twitched without taking his eyes from the man. Then all at once, soft as seaweed and as clingy, the same brush all down the length of his body.

He flipped – and panicked.

Net. Damn. _Damn_. _Net_ his father had warned him everyone warned the children over and over never nevernevernever –

So close to the sea-floor he had no room to maneuver; he tangled as soon as he moved to try for a retreat both powerful and swift. The net was jerked upward – and somehow fastened itself beneath him with that motion.

He twisted, he thrashed – he stretched for the knife Will had given him and the sinew-thread of the net cut into his arm. He couldn't reach. And struggling only seemed to make things worse but the net was lifting him, pulling him upwards through the water to the air.

Dyn-emris was caught.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur ignored Leon's objection – quietly and calmly spoken, like everything the man said – to undress. He unfastened his belt, letting it fall to the deck as he toed off his boots. Then pulled his shirt, already unlaced at the throat due to the warmth of the morning, over his head.

"I'll go," Gwaine called up to him. Not quite daring to strip and dive without Arthur's permission. "Or – we'll send Percival. If it's hungry, it'll definitely go for him." Percival punched Gwaine's shoulder, but not hard enough to make him lose his balance, standing up in the long-boat.

"You've got the net?" Arthur said to Lancelot. Who didn't repeat Leon's warnings, only nodded gravely and dropped the tangle of knitted lines over the side of the ship to the two warriors in the longboat.

Arthur followed it, climbing down the rope ladder to the less steady long-boat. He waited a moment as Gwaine sorted the folds of the weighted net; Percival braced the long-boat, holding on to the ship's hull.

"Just don't miss," he told them lightly, then dove over.

The water was a welcome cool; if it hadn't been for the unknown threat lurking below the waves – and the other threat further out to sea – he might have declared a bit of royal freedom and delayed their voyage to enjoy his swim.

He blew his lungful of air slowly out his nostrils as he surfaced, and began a swift controlled crawl – initially heading for the island. He heard voices behind him, murmur-clear as water splashed in and out of his ears.

"I think it's coming out."

"…Glare of the sun."

Arthur turned a bit on his side and twisted his body in the water to angle his course – not directly away from the ship or toward it, but keeping close enough to return.

"There – now!"

He couldn't tell over his own splashing whether Gwaine and Percival might have been successful – or might have missed it entirely with an inexperienced cast. His heart-rate probably couldn't get any higher, considering his exercise, but it tried.

"Arthur! Hold up!"

He slowed, craning to see over his shoulder.

"Sire, come back – we've got it!"

Treading water for a moment, he watched Percival's sleeveless arms bulge with muscle, legs spread and braced as he pulled on the netting stretching taut into the water – and shaking with the fight of the catch. Gwaine was next to the ship, balancing the long-boat, reaching to help Percival.

They'd caught _something_ , that much was obvious. Something that was giving Percival a helluva fight. Nothing visible above the water, though at least it wasn't _the monster's arms over the gunnels faster'n a drawn breath, climbing the main-mast._

Another call of his name drew his attention upward as he began to kick and stroke back – Lancelot and Leon leaning over the rail nearest him, letting down a knotted rope for him to climb up by. He reached the ship and clung to the rope, half-walking up the hull as his two men hauled him up, though he was still aware that Percival and Gwaine were speaking in low, terse phrases.

"No, Gwaine!" Percival said, sharp enough to catch Arthur's attention.

"I just want to _see_."

Arthur looked over and down as he reached the gunnel; Leon hung over to grab his arm and help him hoist himself back on-deck, as Lancelot held the knotted rope tight. Down in the long-boat, Gwaine –already bootless - shucked his own shirt, then stepped off the prow into the water before Arthur could draw breath to shout an order to the contrary.

He cursed, snatching the shirt Lancelot held out, ignoring his boots in Leon's hand, and sprinted the distance to the waist of the ship where the longboat swayed and thumped the greater hull down at the water-level with Percival's exertions.

"Can you see him?" he called down, a bit stupidly since Percival was so focused on his grip on the netting – holding, Arthur saw, not even gathering. He tossed his shirt over his head and leaned over himself, shoving his arms into the sleeves. Gwaine's shadowy shape was clear of either boat, simply suspended a fathom or so down.

At least the netted creature wasn't attacking.

Arthur held his own breath, and just when his chest began to heave with the need for air he was denying his lungs, Gwaine kicked to the surface.

To gasp, and inhale, and hold up one finger in signal – and duck back down again.

Arthur cursed and slapped the rail with his open palm. He was aware the most of the sailors were watching the little drama over the side – and lifted his head to give Lancelot the sort of suggestive glare that had him whirling to bellow orders sending his crew scurrying to busyness.

"The pull is relaxing," Percival called up to them.

"Just hold it," Arthur called back. "Til we see what Gwaine has to say."

The next moment Gwaine surfaced again. When he had pushed back his hair and rubbed salt water from his eyes, they could see that his eyes were dancing and his grin wide. "You're not going to _believe_ this," he said.

"What is it?" Arthur asked.

Gwaine didn't answer. "You got a hook we can attach the net to, pull it up to the deck?" he called.

Beside Arthur, Lancelot pushed away for a moment, returning with just such a thing, glancing up to be sure of the pulley in the rigging that aided with the movement of cargo and supplies on and off-ship. It was lowered to the long-boat.

"Attach it to the net," Gwaine instructed his friend. "Then let's you and me get back up on deck and this boat out of the way."

"Gwaine," Arthur growled.

His devilish warrior was unrepentant. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he repeated innocently through one of the widest grins Arthur had ever seen on his face. "You're just going to have to see him."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He sobbed and cursed as the water roiled white around him, the net tangled tight.

All the strength of his body was ineffective. And his magic, control over the waves, only served to keep him submerged, the water pressing him down against the pull of the net. He supposed, if he concentrated, he could capsize the little boat – even significantly toss the bigger ship – but unless he could reach that knife to cut himself free it would do no good.

Momentarily exhausted, he paused, half a fathom at least holding him safely away from the surface with a smooth solidity that was comforting rather than otherwise - and at least they hadn't tried jabbing or hitting him with other weapons - but the strands of the net were painfully tight all over his body and if his nails were an inch longer he could touch the hilt of the knife under his left arm and if he had the time and the serenity for concentration he could probably use tiny specific currents to untie the leather strip that held it in its sheath as he swam, but...

A shadow moved at the edge of his vision and he turned his head.

To find himself very nearly face to face with one of the humans. Not the golden-haired leader, this one had dark hair, and so long that it floated constantly in his face – which held a look of comical astonishment probably similar to the one he felt.

A fathom away, or so. Neither of them within striking distance – the stranger's hands were empty, though. He made no threatening move or gesture or look, just floated and _stared_.

"Please," Dyn-emris tried. "Please, you've got to let me go." If not for the sake of the monster he meant to face, then for the sake of avoiding his father's wrath, which would descend on _all_ of them, probably.

The man didn't try to respond. His face wrinkled in a thoughtful, confused way, as if he were trying to understand. Then he held up one forefinger, wriggled his absurdly stiff, parted lower half, and rose to the surface.

Conversely, Dyn-emris' heart sank, fearing the worst. But the tugging on the enveloping net had ceased, and did not resume – and a moment later, the man in the water struggled back down to his level.

"Please," he ventured again. "Please let me go?"

The man drifted nearer. Dyn-emris saw his eyes take in the double-shoulder harness, the hilt of the knife he'd been trying so hard – and so unsuccessfully – to reach. The man pointed at him, moved to tap his thumb on his fingertips like his hand was a giant fish opening and closing his mouth. Then he pointed up and raised his eyebrows in what could only be a hopeful gesture.

"You want to try to talk?" he guessed. He supposed it made sense – if humans couldn't breathe below water, then neither could they speak. And thought rather regretfully, it would be a waste of his time trying to extract promises of safety or freedom if he agreed, as too complicated for their current arrangement.

He would have to trust.

Freeing one finger to point to the surface himself, he moved his head against the binding of the net in an affirmative.

The man nodded vigorously in response, beaming in spite of the water – then blew out a cloud of bubbles, struggling upward again.

Gradually – daringly – his heart pounding in his chest, he released the hold his magic had on the water.

And waited for air.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Stay back, don't crowd him," Gwaine said, as soon as his head emerged from his shirt. He bent over the rail, watching the progress of the net.

"What do you mean, him?" Arthur said, taking a conciliatory step back, even as most of the others retreated still further. It was the second time Gwaine had used the definitely masculine pronoun.

Gwaine's long dark hair dripped on the shoulders of his unlaced shirt as he signaled the pair of sailors hauling on the rope attached to the net. "Well," he said distractedly, turning his body toward Arthur, but not his face. He gestured with both hands toward his chest, his meaning unmistakable. "I don't think it's female."

The net rose into view above the gunnel, and Gwaine and Percival both reached to steady and guide its catch. It was hard to tell for sure in the tangle of knitted line, but Arthur was quite sure he saw the frill of a fin. And something that looked frighteningly like a human hand.

"Lower him down," Gwaine called. "It's all right if I cut this, isn't it?" Without waiting for an answer, he snatched a knife from the belt of a nearby sailor and began sawing at the net even before the dripping burden came to rest on the deck.

No one stepped forward to assist him. Both Leon and Lancelot, just out of Arthur's sight behind him, swore in a quiet and breathless way.

Mer-person. Impossible.

And yet there it was, arms helping – sometimes hindering – Gwaine in removing the clinging net, balancing in an oddly graceful way on its tail. Almost like sitting.

"There you go," Gwaine said in a friendly tone, clearly addressing the creature, and retreated a pace, though he remained in his crouch.

Arthur had to admit, he'd assume _male_ , also. There was certainly not a lot feminine about the thing – short inky-black hair, tousled and wet - flat unclothed chest - broad-ish shoulders. Additionally, he'd guess _adult_.

"That's a gorgeous color," Percival said.

And it was. Because the mer-person was _blue_.

Midnight-black at the fringed tip of a tail that was more dolphin than trout in shape and conformation, lightening to an opaque sapphire around the knees – er, halfway to the waist? The shimmering scales continued uninterrupted up the torso to a light-sky color near the shoulders. A thousand different shades, blended so perfectly it was impossible to tell where one ended and another began. The effect was repeated on the arms bracing him palm-down on deck – long pointed nails that same dark color, fading up scale-covered elbows, up toward the neck, where a lighter stripe crossed both shoulders.

The creature turned its – his – head to watch as Percival seated himself on the deck, and Arthur noticed the glitter of skin-colored scales swirling up under ear and jaw, tiny-feathery like a butterfly's wing rather than a fish's flank. Over and around three or four horizontal slashes in the neck that alarmed Arthur until he thought dazedly, _gills_.

Some of the others, evidently, had given Percival an inquiring glance or so for his action – he looked around the circle of gaping crew-members and explained, "We're all so much taller than him, we must look intimidating."

"He stopped fighting when he saw me," Gwaine explained, twisting in his crouch to focus on Arthur. "I think he _agreed_ to come up here."

"Very brave of him," Leon commented evenly, and for a moment they considered the implications of his statement, ascribing any feeling at all to the creature, and especially that one. "I wonder if it's dangerous for him, being out of the water?"

"He seems to be breathing okay," Lancelot observed.

They all watched the blue-scaled chest expand and contract with each inhalation and exhalation as the creature's eyes darted from one to the next. And it might have been Arthur's imagination that it was a bit fast. Even, panicky.

He felt at once guilty for making a stranger nervous, and wary for what a creature so alien might do if it – he – was frightened. He suggested, "Captain, can you clear the deck a bit."

Lancelot turned to face the majority of his crew. "All right you swabbers!" he bellowed – always a surprising thing, he was usually so soft-spoken. "Take an eye-full and _get back to work_!"

Arthur was alarmed to notice that at the unexpected shout, the mer-man's hand had gone to his left side, under his arm. The stripe he'd noticed was not part of the natural coloring, he realized, but a harness. He stepped closer – a sheath, a hilt –

"Gwaine!" he snapped in warning.

The warrior was unperturbed, having seen the reaction as well. "I know, I saw that too."

Gwaine flipped the knife he still held, and offered it to the creature hilt-first, motioning his request with his other hand. The mer-man regarded weapon and man warily – glanced around to the others still lingering – then fiddled with his own harness a moment before drawing out a short, wide-bladed knife to exchange with Gwaine.

"Look," Gwaine said, shuffling back before he rose to his feet and joined Arthur. "I think he was trying to communicate with me, down there when we first caught him. He's intelligent enough to make this –" solid construction, and decently sharp, though it was all one piece of stone – "and the harness to carry it in, he's brave enough to come on deck and try to communicate, isn't it worth the effort to see if he knows anything about the sea-beast we're facing?"

"He's been spying on us since yesterday," Arthur reminded him.

Gwaine scoffed. "And if you saw a – school – of his people, wouldn't you hide and sneak and watch? I would." Behind him, Percival snorted.

"Hell's teeth, his _people_ ," Leon murmured.

Arthur agreed. He wouldn't have believed someone who'd claimed to see a mer-person – but here was one. And therefore, there was probably more… it only made sense to learn as much as they could, though they had little time to waste if the barriers to communication proved too difficult to overcome productively.

"How soon til we're ready to sail?" Arthur asked Lancelot, without taking his eyes from Gwaine.

"Another hour, sire."

"Gwaine, you've got an hour," Arthur told him. "But for heaven's sake, don't forget – he's not a pet. You can't keep him."

Gwaine gave him a brilliant grin and returned to his crouch at the mer-man's side, returning the stone knife for an exchange back. Then he stuck out his hand deliberately. "Nice to meet you," he said clearly. "I'm Gwaine. _Gwaine_."

The mer-man made an odd soft whine-squeal in the back of his throat, a range of pitches surprisingly expressive, then clicked his tongue without opening his lips. Arthur struggled to keep the surprised realization that Gwaine was probably right about at least the attempt to communicate from showing on his face; Gwaine tossed him a significant glance, as if to say, _see_.

The creature stared fascinated at Gwaine's hand, then re-sheathed his knife with a casual inattention that spoke volumes about his familiarity with it; Arthur felt a heightening of both respect and caution. Then the mer-man reached to claim what Gwaine offered with both his own hands, gently and almost delicately exploring, as if maybe he didn't quite dare the liberty, or was afraid of hurting the man unintentionally. Which was laughable, from Arthur's point of view – but it said something about the mer-man, didn't it.

Gwaine was allowed to return the mer-man's attention, touching and testing and exploring those blue hands as he finished introductions; Arthur noticed with more curiosity than distaste that the creature's fingers, in addition to the dark pointed nails, were webbed to the first knuckle.

"That's Percival, over there. Those fellows standing up, you've got Lancelot on the right, he's captain. Then Leon on the left." Deliberately Gwaine emphasized each of their names, and the creature's eyes found each man as if he understood what Gwaine intended. "Him in the middle – come on, Arthur, come say hello. Don't be scared." Arthur rolled his eyes at his warrior's disrespectful grin and comment, but moved closer.

The mer-man's attention focused on him so swiftly and completely it was unnerving, but… Arthur thought of _courage_ and _trust_ , and knelt to be on the same level, offering his hand. He supposed his title would have little meaning for someone like this, and decided to keep it simple. "Arthur."

Eyes another extraordinary shade of blue studied him – shifted to his hand. Then the creature's right extended, carefully – dark blue, scales on the palm, sharp nails, webbing and all – and slid into a gentleman's grasp. Strong and firm, and Arthur almost smiled.

"That's Arthur," Gwaine repeated, slapping his shoulder familiarly. The creature followed his movement. "I'm Gwaine –" hand on his own chest – "and what can we call you, mate?" He pointed toward the mer-man.

His gaze returned to Arthur. His lips parted to draw breath, and he tried – uncertainly, but recognizably – "Ar-thur."

Arthur felt his eyebrows trying to rise of their own accord; it was an uncanny feeling of satisfaction and privilege - a very surreal moment.

"Very good," Gwaine said. "What's your name?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

So far, so good. At least he was out of the net.

Though it made him edgy and self-conscious to have so many men staring at him, no one seemed overtly threatening – though he supposed, the real test would come when he wanted to return to the water.

His knife had been inspected and returned, and he'd been allowed to do the same with the dark-haired man's weapon, that spoke well for the honor of the humans. The workmanship of the metal blade was very fine, but it would not have stayed so long, underwater. Dyn-emris traded back without reservation.

Then the dark-haired man began introductions, and he repeated the strange names in his head, in the human language, remembering each. Gwaine, Percival, Lancelot, Leon. The big man with the scar and the sensibly short hair – the other dark-haired man whose bellowing had most of the others jumping to various incomprehensible chores on the ship; he watched them clamber about nimbly, and changed his mind about the usefulness of their lower appendages. The other with the longish hair, with a curl that never would stay, underwater – he had the quiet, watchful air of one of Balinor's commanders.

And the sun-haired leader, last but most important. Who bent his lower limbs to come very close and offer his strange hand – small palm and long fingers and covered with soft skin rather than hardy scales.

He'd been concentrating so hard on _absorbing_ their speech – though none of them talked as much or as fast as the dark-haired – oh, _Gwaine_ , he'd said. He wanted to try – he thought he could – it would help him learn, he was sure of it –

"Arthur."

Almost, the man smiled. He seemed to be much better than Dyn-emris at hiding his thoughts and emotions.

Then, clearly, they were asking for his name. He told them as well as he could, in their own language, and they still looked confused. Ah, but he'd forgotten. He wasn't a human, so therefore he should probably add, "Mer-Dyn-emris."

"Mer-dyn?" the dark-haired man named Gwaine attempted the unfamiliar sounds, awkwardly.

"Merlin."

It sounded so natural when Arthur said it – almost solemn, like he was Dyn-emris' human king bestowing a title earned. He couldn't help a delighted grin himself – which Arthur almost answered before repeating his name cautiously in the human language.

"Merlin Emrys?"

Good enough. He nodded and spoke again, himself. "Yes."

 **A/N: Special thanks to the reviewers I didn't pm, b/c they didn't sign in or whatever… I appreciate your thoughts/comments/compliments very much! I'm so flattered that although this is a very unusual A/U, I am trusted to pull it off! Now you see, though, how I've 'fixed' the name thing – Arthur will now refer to Merlin as Merlin; the shift in Merlin's pov will come a little later, along with other shifts… Next chapter, Gaius!**

And, Kirsten – you're totally right about the role reversal from _Vortigern's Tower_ , the two boys setting off to the same destination under switched circumstances, I did recognize/intend that, so good job, you!


	3. Fish Out Of Water

**Chapter 3: Fish Out Of Water**

"Good heavens," Gaius had said blankly. "Is it really?" That and an unusually-high eyebrow was the extent of the external reaction to their strange guest, from the ship's physician.

Now the old man sat on a short keg in company with Gwaine, cross-legged on the deck – and Merlin. Arthur could fairly hear Gaius observing details – in addition to the temperature, pulse, and respirations the physician had checked with casual and unquestioned authority upon first introductions - cataloguing and memorizing. He imagined the report the old man would write, maybe an addition to the Bestiary he kept in his library.

Arthur's own seat was on the port-side wide ladder to the fo'c'sle-deck, close enough to keep an eye on the trio, but not to intrude on the conversation. He'd gotten the feeling that the mer-man was aware of _him_ , more than any other person on the ship, and he didn't want any sense of self-consciousness to impede the information-gathering.

And it was a conversation, as much as anything else. Arthur did see Merlin's lips move in human speech, more often as time went by. Almost… suspiciously so.

Gwaine, for his part, seemed entirely _un_ -self-conscious in his investigation of the heretofore mythical sea-dweller. Turning Merlin by the shoulder to see the rest of his sheath-harness, testing the quality of the scales and fins. And in return, he didn't betray any of the discomfort Arthur would have felt at letting Merlin examine his bare feet.

The mer-man had relaxed, Arthur could tell. It was in the way he sprawled belly-down, propped on his elbows, twisting to look up at Gaius occasionally. And flipped that fantastic tail so casually.

Arthur could not help thinking in terms of human bones and joints, but that tail just _curled_. It was simply too bad that their voyage did not admit for an extension, to prolong this opportunity. He'd have to remind the men – sailors as well – to keep this meeting confidential, when they got back. No need for half the kingdom to be trawling the ocean for Merlin's people.

His mouth twisted a bit, as he looked down at the apple he was peeling with his knife. _If_ they got back.

"Sire," Lancelot spoke quietly behind him; he'd taken a position lounging against the capstan, since they still rode anchor. "The Medusa sails at your command."

Arthur sighed. Time was up, then. "Thank you, Captain," he said, and raised his voice. "Gwaine."

His warrior glanced up – all three did – then rose to join Arthur at the ladder, one bare foot propped on the first narrow stair as he leaned on the handrail.

"Those scales are amazing," he told Arthur, reaching unceremoniously for the apple Arthur had just finished; he let it go without comment or protest. "You should feel them, once. Not slimy like a fish, it's more like snake-skin."

"What did you get?" Arthur said softly.

"There are more like him, though he's cagey on numbers and location," Gwaine said. Arthur nodded; so would he be, under similar circumstances. "I take it he's something like a scout – on his own but followed by others? He didn't say anything about the creature, but he knew what I was talking about, and he wasn't surprised."

Arthur grunted noncommittally. He supposed that answered his suspicion about whether there was such a monster, or whether the wrecks might have been caused by a group of smaller creatures like Merlin. Now he only hoped the mer-people didn't see the monster as some sort of pet or god to be protected.

Over Gwaine's shoulder, he watched Gaius plant his hands on his knees and push himself to his feet – the old man's gait slower than usual for the sake of ship-board balance, his habitual robe discarded for more practical trousers and shirt.

"That's all?" he said to Gwaine – not critically, just making sure.

"So far." Gwaine raised his eyebrows and grinned, and Arthur answered his unspoken request immediately.

"No."

Gwaine shrugged and returned to sprawl beside Merlin, preparing to share the peeled apple with his new friend – who surely had never had one before. Arthur thought about probable diet for a sea-creature – and shuddered.

"Well?" he said to Gaius.

"Extraordinary, of course," Gaius said. "Level of intelligence comparable to ours, though presumably the development of their civilization lags somewhat under natural constraints."

"You can communicate clearly with him?" Arthur hinted.

"Comprehension comes understandably slowly, but he seems to be absorbing our language without significant difficulty."

Absorbing language. Arthur snorted, thinking that Gwaine was the last man he'd choose for that particular responsibility, imparting knowledge of their language to someone of another culture. If it was true, the mer-man would return to his people with a vocabulary appropriate for any tavern in the kingdom.

Then Gaius shifted with the motion of the ship, and past him Arthur noted that Merlin's gaze was steady on them, in spite of Gwaine's animated speech.

"Can he understand us right now?" Arthur said, casually but deliberately.  
And though Merlin betrayed none of the embarrassed confusion of those caught listening in unpermitted, Gaius said readily, unperturbed by the probability himself, "Almost surely."

Arthur leaned to put the old man's bulk between himself and the mer-man. "How is that possible?" he hissed – and a sudden thought struck him. "Is it _magic_?"

Not something he was familiar or comfortable with, himself. His father was highly suspicious of any extrasensory power, which meant he'd discouraged the inclusion of the topic in Arthur's education, and those capable of wielding it generally made themselves scarce when king or prince was about.

Gaius, though, was something of a specialist on the topic, and not at all bothered by the question.

"Sire, there are many strange peoples in the world. Like giants and dwarves and unicorns, who may have a passive form of magic. Like fairies and trolls and dragons who are capable of active performance of it. I would not be at all surprised if mer-people have a form of magic. However, I would also expect them to have – in addition to the obvious physical attributes – certain characteristics or abilities different from our own. You can see that he breathes as easily as we do, above water, and that he is also equipped to submerge indefinitely, quite comfortably. That he naturally translates and absorbs our language is only of benefit to us, wouldn't you say?"

Not if the creature withheld – or didn't possess – the information they needed.

Gaius moved back as Arthur pushed to his feet. "Benefit or not, our time is up," he said. "Back Merlin goes into the water, and the Medusa sets sail to find the sea-monster."

"Kraken," an unfamiliar voice said.

Arthur realized it was Merlin. The mer-man put one hand up to the gunnel for balance as he shifted into an upright position, eyes locked on Arthur. Who stepped closer, and this time didn't bother kneeling to put their strange guest at ease.

"I beg your pardon?" Arthur said.

"Kraken," Merlin repeated. "Monster." He linked his blue-scaled thumbs and wiggled his webbed fingers – Arthur interpreted it as a mime of eight tentacles. Then he angled flattened hand-and-fingers to form a V-shape. "Deep."

"You know the thing," Arthur said narrowly. "And where it lives." Gwaine's eyebrows were up, maybe surprised at Merlin volunteering information to Arthur that the mer-man refused _him_.

"Deep," Merlin repeated, and glanced around to make the assumption, "You – sail to – kill it?"

The truth was a risk, an even chance whether the answer would make them allies or enemies. He said, "Your interest is…"

"My father…" Merlin shook his head, self-corrected a word maybe mis-spoken. "My _king_ … will try to… kill it. Soon. My… purpose. I… help you?"

Gwaine looked up at Arthur, who crossed one arm over his chest and lifted the other hand to pinch his lip thoughtfully. If Merlin was telling the truth… there were definite strategic advantages to a number of allies who could go maybe quite deep underwater, even if they were armed only with knives.

"How would you help us?" he challenged, just to see what Merlin might say.

The mer-man looked out over the rail, at the sea and sky, with a faintly puzzled expression, as if he didn't know the words to answer with, or couldn't quite assemble them into an adequate explanation.

"Help," he repeated. "Help." His gaze returned to Arthur, and he shrugged, his expression changing to a sly sort of merriment. "I come with – _here_ –" his mer-man's scaled, webbed hand patted the deck – "or I swim with, anyway."

It occurred to Arthur that his comment about returning Merlin to the sea was just the sort of reassurance the other had been waiting for, concerning his own fate aboard the humans' vessel. That the mer-man had decided to trust him, to tell him. To join him.

Gwaine grinned. "If he's planning on tagging along anyway," he said to Arthur. "We might as well give him a ride, don't you think?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Dyn-emris had always loved to swim, loved to create his own currents and feel the cool of the water slide over skin and scale, feel the tug on his hair of slight resistance, watch the sea-floor rise or drop away suddenly or gradually, the scattering of a school of bright fish or the slower avoidance of a larger creature.

He found he loved sailing as well. It was not dissimilar.

The heat of the sun was close and heavy, the cool of the air over his body and through his hair very like the water – and the _motion_. It was amazing, the rise and fall and surge of the ship over and through the waves, and he put forth no effort except to _ride_.

So hard and solid was the wood beneath his body, his fingers. So slow and boring had seemed the voyages of human ships when watched from twenty fathoms down. He never expected _this_ ; he closed his eyes and felt an immediate dizzy exhilaration, only heightened by the sailors' calling and singing, the ripple of sails and rope. Almost, he laughed aloud at the sheer joy of living, the odd turn of fate that placed him here and now, when he'd fought and feared and sobbed and cursed, caught in the net.

"You have good balance."

The unexpected voice – and the immediate shock of who it belonged to – nearly ruined that balance.

He let his tail slip to the inside of the ship's rail where he rode – he'd have preferred the high tip of the front of the boat but had no way to get there himself and felt very odd to ask even Gwaine to help him make the move – and turned, still gripping the rail between his hands, to see Arthur. His feet planted against the rise and drop of the ship's deck, facing forward mostly – by Dyn-emris suspected he hadn't simply chanced to walk by and chat.

"Wouldn't matter," he said.

And was again surprised and pleased at how well he'd absorbed the human language – after an hour of double-checking his understanding with Gwaine and the fascinating old man Gaius, he was nearly certain he could understand most of what was said to and around him. Speaking it seemed a little slower in coming, though that made sense – he could hear the words he wanted to use in his head, but his lips and tongue were unaccustomed to forming those sounds.

"Wouldn't matter," he repeated, and went on, "if I fell over… would it?"

Arthur's mouth pulled sideways in a wry grin. "No, I don't suppose it would, at that."

Some moments passed, but Arthur didn't walk away. Dyn-emris was curious about him, but felt a bit shy asking; Arthur seemed much more reserved than Gwaine. And yet, he had approached.

"You have questions?" he suggested.

A quick glance from eyes as blue as the sky and sharp as ice in winter. "I don't wish to offend you."

"Gwaine asked a lot. He was very… curious."

Arthur gave him full attention and a half-amused look. "About what?"

Dyn-emris returned the look with impudent innocence. "He asked me if our women had b-"

"Merlin!" Arthus snapped, then looked as though he'd startled himself, and added more formally, "I don't need to know the rest."

He finished anyway, still innocently, "Babies, like whales, or whether they laid eggs like fish."

Arthur cocked his head, and fought the smile. "Tell me," he said, stepping past Dyn-emris' position on the rail to seat himself on the deck with his back to it, just beyond arms' reach. "Did you choose that word _curious_ to be diplomatic on purpose, or is it the only one that came to mind?" Dyn-emris only grinned. "You're unusual for a mer-person, aren't you?"

His smile slipped. He lowered his chest to the rail so he could pay more attention to their conversation than his need for balance. "What makes you say that?"

Arthur shrugged one shoulder. "Your people are myth, to mine," he said. "Too shy for confirmed sightings. Yet you asked to come with us, on a ship with nearly twenty men."

"I am curious also," he said. And his plan for using the ship as a decoy had been altered a bit, too. Now he was wondering if they might not fight cooperatively, somehow. "And the kraken… is a problem… bigger than… both of us."

"No pun intended?" Arthur said wryly.

"Pun?" Dyn-emris was confused; it was not a human word he'd heard yet.

"Never mind." Arthur draped his wrists casually over bent – _knees_ , Gwaine had said, and privately Dyn-emris was both fascinated and disgusted by the idea – and gazed into the distance toward the two other small-boats resting upside-down on the other side of the ship. Port? was the term? "What's your home like?"

"Dim and cool." He smiled at Arthur's rather exasperated look. There _were_ feelings and emotions there, kept hidden as was proper for a leader, but Dyn-emris was curious also about how to get at Arthur's particularly.

"Look, we're never going to have any kind of conversation if we stay suspicious of one another," Arthur said, with a certain shift of demeanor that intrigued Dyn-emris because it made him think of Balinor, addressing the people, then turning to be more informal with his family. "I promise I have no desire to track down your home or capture or harm any of your people, and I will do my best to see that _this_ lot –" he waved a forefinger in a vertical circle to indicate the other men aboard – "doesn't, either.

"You can promise that?" he asked curiously. "Who are you at home?"

"I'm a prince," Arthur said, after the briefest hesitation. "My father is king."

"You are the –" Dyn-emris did not know how to say _heir_ in the human language – "one who will rule after?"

"Yes."

He made an interested noise. "That's so – that's very –" he didn't know the word for _coincidental_ , either. And on second thought, probably wouldn't say, _I'm a prince, too_! It was a bit… childish. And maybe irrelevant, anyway.

"Tiresome?" Arthur said, surprising the thought of coincidence right out of his head. "I don't know how it is for your people, but… I know my life belongs to the kingdom and I'm glad to serve and fight, but…"

"This isn't your first… monster?" he asked softly, laying his cheek on his hand on the rail and letting his tail-fins swing for balance.

Arthur shook his head. "Sometimes I get a bit… impatient, with destiny."

He recognized that the human prince was telling him this because it would be inappropriate for him to say to any one of his men. And because it eased the burden to describe it to a stranger, somehow. "Mm," he agreed, thinking of Freya. "I have a… similar problem, myself."

"Do you really," Arthur said, politely but as if he didn't fully believe him.

"Limited choices," Dyn-emris said. "Duty before desires."

Arthur turned his head to look at him again, as if relatability between them was an incomprehensible surprise to him.

"So tell me about your home," he said again, dropping one knee to the deck. Dyn-emris had observed the habit with Gwaine also, an occasional position-change. And, now that he no longer floated nearly weightless anymore, either, he understood.

"It's a palace," he said, and saw exactly the reaction in Arthur's eyes that he'd tried to avoid by not saying, _I'm a prince_. "It is! even though its on the bottom of the ocean now, it was a grand palace and city once, an island of men."

"Aetlantys," Arthur said without expression.

Dyn-emris did not try to hide that he was pleased. "You've heard of it?"

"We thought that myth as well," Arthur said, looking away for a moment as if to visualize the reality of the stories he'd heard. "So, what? When the earthquake sank Aetlantys, you all moved in?"

"No," Dyn-emris said, a bit slower now. "You said… we should not be suspicious of one another."

"You're right," Arthur said, allowing a slight smile. "I apologize. There's a story, I guess?"

"A legend… but it's true."

"Well, go on, then. Once upon a time…"

Dyn-emris narrowed his eyes at the human prince, sure that he was being mocked somehow, but unable to confirm it. "Aetlantys was the home of a great king, the most powerful storm-caster, named Poseidon."

"A god, we were told," Arthur murmured.

Dyn-emris paused to consider. "Yes, I suppose that… such abilities might seem… god-like? to others. And, that some such magi-cians – that's a word? – would encourage people to… honor their gifts, more than they should?"

Arthur shifted as if the topic made him uneasy.

"Anyway," Dyn-emris went on, "he left the rule of the city to his four children. Two male, two female. Two were – I don't know the word, but they loved best to study health and help people? And two loved to… argue, and… force the laws?"

"Enforce," Arthur corrected, and Dyn-emris nodded.

"Each could command only one of the elements that Poseidon had control of, though, so they were… balanced, a long time."

"Elements?" Arthur said, a puzzled wrinkle between his eyebrows.

"Earth, water, air… fire," he explained.

"So what happened?"  
He shrugged one shoulder and sighed. "They fought, of course. No one remembers why. Only that the one of the four who had power over earth caused a great quake. To… submerge the city, the island." He read Arthur's reaction by his expression, and added, "No – it was done with… best intentions? To clean the… dark and…"

"Evil?" Arthur suggested quietly.

"Yes. But the one who commanded water said a great magic to save a… part of the people? And gave his life in so doing… and here we are." He freed one hand to sweep in a gesture down his body, flipping his tail.

"You mean, mer-people were created with sorcery?" Arthur said. And Dyn-emris must surely have been wrong to read distaste in his expression.

"No, magic saved us. Those of my – father's fathers – who could…" What was the word for _adapt_? "Change, then breathed in the water, and lived."

"And you believe that story?" Arthur said noncommittally, gazing across the ship toward the water again.

Dyn-emris spoke the name in his own language. _Trytn_. "Because he knew he would not live long enough to teach his son his storm-casting, put the last of his… strength? into a… shell, that could be blown to sound long distances."

"A horn?" Arthur said.

"Our king carries it still." Dyn-emris nodded. "It is passed down to his oldest son – who becomes king."

"Mm hm…"

New as he was to human communication, Dyn-emris knew that tone for sarcasm. "You don't believe me?" he said, pushing his chest up off the rail again. "Many of my people also command earth or water."

Arthur's condescendingly incredulous expression didn't change, and Dyn-emris thought swiftly to wash the smugness off the face of the human prince. An instant later, a spume of sea-water crashed over the rail, drenching them both. Arthur sputtered to his feet; Dyn-emris laughed in delight at the feeling of the cool droplets.

"That wasn't you," Arthur said flatly, wiping his eyes. Vaguely Dyn-emris could hear snickers and laughter from the working sailors – maybe that disrespectful guffaw was his new friend Gwaine. But Arthur ignored them. "That wasn't you," he repeated, but with less certainty.

"Would you like me to do it again?" Dyn-emris challenged, and Arthur immediately lifted a hand as if to shield his face from the spray.

"No!" The human prince re-considered, his reaction having betrayed subconscious belief. Dyn-emris could fairly _see_ him thinking. "You control water, then?"

He wondered if he should add, _and earth_. A dual affinity was unusual among his people, but less so for one of the royal line. Their great ancestor had possessed a quadruple-affinity, after all. Maybe it would seem arrogant, and maybe it would be important. He decided to mention it later on, when they got closer to the abyssal. Two days, Gwaine had said.

"That's why you were sent," Arthur said, as if thinking aloud. "That's how you believe you can help us."

Dyn-emris nodded, holding that sky-blue, ice-hard gaze. He found he was impressed by this prince, who had been trusted and sent by his father the king. And maybe now he understood a bit better why, and why _he_ hadn't been.

"Excuse me," Arthur said to him, "Merlin, we'll definitely talk again." He made an agreeable noise, and the prince halted in his third step toward the rear – the stern? – part of the ship. "Ask anyone for anything you need, all right?"

"Thank you," he said, but he was pretty sure the other prince – deep in thought and perhaps even planning – didn't hear him.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was late when Arthur finally allowed himself to fall asleep.

The table in the captain's cabin – suspended to remain level through the motion of the ship – was overflowing with charts and plans and diagrams, various strategies ranging from possible to absurd, conservative to suicidal.

Because Merlin – his presence, his capture, his intelligence and unexpected friendship and willingness to help and the amazingly rapid ability to communicate – his _magic_ – was too impossible a coincidence to waste.

He worked with quill in one hand, a quick occasional snatch of food in the other. Percival had delivered his dinner at some point – and the assurance that Gwaine was enjoying himself, and providing for their guest, presenting Merlin with a sample of every edible they had on board.

The candle was guttering in its wide, heavy-based holder when he decided that three viable plans to discuss with Leon and Lancelot – and Merlin – in the morning, were enough. He tumbled into his bunk without bothering with boots or blanket.

It was early when Arthur woke.

So early that he blinked bemusedly at the lantern in Leon's hand before responding to the quiet hiss, "Sire!"  
"Leon," he said, rolling to a sitting position, the edge of his bunk hard under the back of his knees, his boots heavy on his feet.

The sky outside the portholes still dark.

"You're needed on deck," Leon said.

Needed. He blinked a moment more. An imminent attack by the sea-monster would precipitate a ship-wide screamed alert – any problem with the ship would require Lancelot, which meant…

Arthur lurched to his feet, crossed the cabin, and passed Leon in the doorway, leaving him to latch the cabin door behind them.

"It's Merlin?" he said calmly, once into the salty night air. "What's wrong? Something happened?"  
Leon followed him, but hesitated to speak, which was unlike him. "Something."

"He's still on-deck?"

"Yes."  
The eastern horizon showed the thinnest gray stripe to distinguish it from the other compass-points; another lantern-glow marked the section of deck in the waist of the ship where Merlin had remained. At least two standing figures turned at the sound of their boots on the deck – Gwaine and Percival, he recognized.

"We were keeping an eye on him, like you said," Leon added. "Quarter-watches, Percival and Gwaine, Lancelot of course when he was on deck. Half an hour ago…"

Arthur didn't know the crew aside from passing acquaintance, putting names with faces; he hadn't wanted to run the risk that any would – for any reason – raise a hand against their unusual guest. Merlin had his knife, of course – but bruising wouldn't show up on most of his body.

They were close enough now that Arthur could see the long, low, irregular shape of the mer-man. Eyes shut, Arms drawn into his chest, the rest of his body moving involuntarily, trembling, as if he were in pain.

"No one touched him, sire, I swear," Gwaine said – and Arthur knew how serious was the situation when Gwaine used his title respectfully. "I thought he was sleeping – and then _this_."

Arthur knelt down beside the mer-man. "You've called for –"

"Yes – he's coming."

"Merlin?" Arthur tried, daring to put his hand on a bare scaled shoulder.

The mer-man moaned, a chillingly human noise that also made him sound young and vulnerable.

"Do back up and give me some space!" Gaius said peremptorily. And even though his expertise and position took precedence over Arthur's authority in a medical emergency, Arthur chose to believe he was speaking to the three warriors, instead, and didn't move. Gaius knelt with difficulty beside Arthur, to test Merlin's forehead, his neck high under the corner of his jaw. He pried eyelids open – rolling unfocused blue-rimmed-black – and tested the blue-scaled flesh of his forearm.

"What do you think, Gaius?" Arthur prompted quietly.

"If his temperature this morning was normal, he's running a fever now," the physician declared.

"Something he ate?" That was Gwaine, behind Arthur, and with a definite note of guilt in his voice. "I asked him – he said he didn't believe our food was going to be bad for him."

"What about the water?" Percival offered. "Has he only had ours? Because surely _they_ don't drink only fresh water?"

"No," Gaius said, shortly and decisively. "He's not dehydrated, and the symptoms would be different if it was a digestive issue."

"Maybe because he's been so long out of the water?" Leon said.

Gaius twisted stiffly in his crouch to look up at Leon thoughtfully, but said nothing.

"What can we do for that – we can't do anything for that," Gwaine said. "Pour sea-water by the bucketful over him? We don't have a bath, and we can't just…"

Arthur, looking up, caught his exasperated, over-the-rail gesture. No, they couldn't simply dump him back in the water. Not like this – in obvious pain, and nearly unconscious. It would be like abandoning one of his own men in the woods at night in a similar condition. Tantamount to killing him, maybe.

Gaius shifted to run gentle physician's hands down the lower half of the mer-man's body. The tail curled reactively at the touch, and Merlin's breath caught in his throat. The crisp fin at the end seemed limp now, to Arthur.

"Look," Percival said, moving the second lantern he held, and something glittered darkly on the deck under Merlin's body.

Arthur almost choked on a sudden inhalation, himself. It looked like _blood_ – til Gaius felt of it and showed his fingers blued by transference of the substance.

"Scales?" Arthur said. "He's… shedding?"

"I said it felt like snakeskin, maybe…" Gwaine's initial enthusiasm diminished rapidly; he probably realized how far-fetched the notion sounded.

Then again, _mer-person_.

"Why don't we get him to sick-bay," Arthur said. Percival and Gwaine bent to pick Merlin up bodily – gently, though he obviously tried to flinch away, and whimpered in the back of his throat. "Gaius, anything you need is yours."

"I'll keep you informed, sire," Gaius promised. Arthur wondered how many times he'd seen the same look on the old man's face – weary bafflement at some undiagnosed malady. How many times it had been followed by unexpected triumphant solution… and how many times, by unavoidable defeat.

Arthur moved to follow Gwaine and Percival toward the forward hatch, but the small sounds of distress that escaped Merlin twisted his heart; when Leon laid a hand on his arm he stopped willingly, though his eyes stayed with the mer-man.

"What will this mean to our voyage?" Leon asked.

Arthur sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. The hopes and strategies that covered Lancelot's table were all impossible with Merlin like this, unresponsive and suffering. Back to the first plan, then.

"The same as if one of the crew was ill," he said. "If there's no improvement he'll stay with the ship and Lancelot – if the creature surfaces and we take to the boats to fight it." And if the ship went down… if they _all_ died…

"If Gaius can't do anything, and worse comes to worst?"

He watched Percival and Gwaine maneuver themselves and their burden carefully down the narrow companionway, then turned to face his lieutenant. One of the things that made Leon so invaluable in his position – he could ask the hardest questions, the necessary questions, without losing an ounce of compassion.

"You mean, if he dies?" Arthur said bluntly, feeling his throat tighten.

He'd watched Merlin for quite some time before he'd finally engaged the mer-man in serious conversation. He'd looked like some fantastic figurehead, perched on the side gunnel, but the intricacy of detail, the motion and the _life_ – Merlin was enjoying every moment of what was surely his first sailing experience, and made no effort to hide it, to appear more sophisticated, to remain suspicious of the humans.

"A sea-burial, I suppose?" Leon ventured, referring to the practice of winding the corpse in sheets and weighing it down, committing the body to the deep as to a grave or pyre. "But then, we couldn't get word back to his people…"

"Let's not…" He cleared his throat deliberately, and gave Leon's arm a whack that incongruously seemed to comfort him. A bit. "Let's not give up hope quite yet."

"Of course not." Leon's face cleared, just slightly. "Get some sleep if you can, sire. The day after tomorrow is liable to be a busy one."

He nodded. Knowing he could do neither Merlin nor Gaius any good, hovering, and he had a responsibility to the rest of the men – his father, their kingdom – to keep himself at peak performance capability.

Arthur returned to the captain's cabin, pausing to look forward, catching the faint glimmer of light around the hatch cover from the newly occupied sick-bay. Once in his bunk, the door shut and his thoughts and Lancelot's gentle snoring for company, he rolled himself in his blanket and faced the curved wooden hull-wall.

 _Let's not give up hope…_

 **A/N: PS, people have said,** _ **Percy Jackson**_ **, and I'm flattered to be compared to something published and popular – only, I've never read/seen it, so… any similarity is unintentional?**


	4. Sea-Legs

**A/N: Warning: Description of Merlin's 'condition'** _ **may**_ **be squick-worthy for some…**

 **Chapter 4: Sea-Legs**

He dreamed he was swimming.

The whole ocean was clear as the island bay, the schools of fish in extravagant color and style, so numerous and so close as to obscure his vision and brush against his body before zig-zagging away again. So playful that he ignored the itchy scrape of tiny sharp fins, the uncomfortable chill left behind; he laughed out loud, letting the bubbles tickle his nose.

Far ahead, he saw a small shadow on the surface, that immediately claimed his attention from the distracting sea-life. He knew it for a ship, for Arthur's ship, and he strained muscles in swift swimming, to catch up.

Because he remembered. They had an enemy.

He'd closed the gap between himself and the vessel by nearly three-quarters, when abruptly his arms did not obey his brain's command to stroke, instead remaining motionless at his sides. No fear, but vexation. Net or seaweed, accident or misunderstanding – he didn't even glance down, simply relied on his powerful tail to propel him through the water toward his goal.

Something tightened around him – not seaweed but net. Not Arthur's net – someone else's? but Arthur had promised –

And yanked him to a halt so sudden his hair floated forward, nearly covering his eyes. Nearly. But still he saw the hull of the sailing ship drop lower and lower, til the deck broke surface and all the canvas followed, sailing at a downward angle toward the silty sea-floor.

He cried out and struggled against the hold – and finally looked to see himself wrapped in a gray gelid arm – _squeezed_ – drawn backward and turned now to facing a bulbous head and incomprehensible face and a sharp beak-mouth.

And everything slowed.

He struggled for his magic – too late, not enough, always an element of his nightmares – as his bones snapped in the crushing grip and he screamed and water filled his mouth but he couldn't breathe –

And the beak-mouth closed over the center of his tail-fin. And a second tentacle slithered through murky water to grip opposite its cousin and he understood the thing prepared to _rip him in half_ …

He woke gasping, surrounded not by the soothing cool weight of water but by deceptively thin air – air and wood and the light of a candle –

No. Nonono this was wrong this was all wrong -

Still fighting his nightmare, his arms moved, to stretch out and prove their freedom, to bring his hands to his face for visual confirmation – then maybe the deep wrong ache of the rest of his body would ease, too. Not in the water, not being torn apart by a monster…

"Merlin! Merlin? Slow down, calm down, it's all right. You're safe, we're taking care of you –"

His hands – if his eyes were to be believed – were _all wrong_. Pink and soft, the dark webbing dry and shriveled and peeling. The scales on his forearms flaking at every touch _that_ had never happened before –

"What did you do to me?" he gasped.

Sorrow engulfed him, swift and unexpected. He'd trusted them he'd trusted _him_ and now –

"Merlin." Another voice. He blinked and looked into Prince Arthur's blue eyes, warm and humid with sympathetic distress. "We'll take care of you. I promise. I _promise_."

"Make it stop," he moaned, squeezing his eyes tight shut. "Make it stop?"

"You're going to be all right," Arthur whispered, and maybe even touched his hair. "We're here with you."

He believed Arthur.

He trusted Arthur.

He sank back into a softness he didn't question, closed his eyes, and released the tension in his body to numb slumber.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Arthur, it's barely past dawn!" Gaius snapped, the moment he pushed open the galley door. "I _have_ a patient, I have _not_ had the time to get your breakfast!"

He wasn't offended, knowing as he did that the old man's temper always resulted from concern. He was worried, however, that Merlin's situation was dire enough to warrant it.

"No, I –" he cleared his throat – "I came to see about Merlin."

Gaius turned with a small tray of ship's-bread and the beef broth from the previous day's stew, dark and thick in its tall narrow-rimmed dish, and Arthur moved to be out of his way, careful of the galley stove. The old man looked haggard and resigned – probably he hadn't slept after they'd moved Merlin. "Come with me, then, sire."

Sick-bay was adjacent to the galley, forward of the berth-deck with its rows of hammocks where the sailors slept, and upwards from the cargo hold in the belly of the ship. There were four bunks, and Merlin was in the uppermost of the outermost. Covered by a blanket tucked up to his chin, still he shifted restlessly, and made a brief noise of pain.

"He hasn't woken?" Arthur said.

Gaius shook his head without turning. He made his slow way to the foot of Merlin's bed, laying the tray on the upper bunk opposite. "I was hoping to get some nourishment into him now, he's been conscious enough to take some water, periodically."

"He isn't any better?"

The old physician grunted. "He isn't any worse," he said enigmatically.

Arthur looked down at Merlin's face – pale and perspiration-shiny in the light of the lantern that swung gently from the hook overhead, his black hair damply disheveled on his forehead. With his eyes closed, and without the distraction of his tail and blue scales, he looked young. Not yet twenty, by human standards.

"That's not to say," Gaius added, "that there haven't been… changes."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked.

"His pulse, his breathing, his temperature all slightly elevated from what I noted when he came on board – but steady, since he was found unconscious," Gaius said. And paused.

"What changed, then?" He studied the old physician, and a suspicion occurred to him. "You have an idea what's making him ill, don't you?"

"Only time will tell if I'm right." Gaius sighed, bracing himself against the rocking of the ship with one hand on the edge of the bunk. "Yesterday afternoon, while you were busy in your cabin, I spoke with Merlin again. He told me a story about the origins of his people –"

"Poseidon's four children who quarreled and sank their own island?" Arthur said.

"Yes. He mentioned that you were not inclined to believe him."

"And you do?" Arthur said.

"A spell of adaptability," Gaius said, as if he had been considering the concept for quite some time. "Would certainly explain how he managed to pick up our language so quickly. And look."

Gently, almost gingerly, he plucked the blanket by its edge, away from Merlin's lower extremity. Arthur moved closer to see, and felt his face twist in a grimace of sympathetic revulsion.

Merlin's tail-fin had split length-wise, rubbed a raw-pink on the inside, and looked rigid, even knobby; the fringe was shrunken and curled, and scales littered the thin mattress of the bunk. Gaius lifted the blanket and Arthur saw the split ran several inches into the interior of the tail – but there was no blood, no raw, exposed flesh. Just an odd dual ridge up each side like –

Without thinking, he reached to touch.

"No, don't!" Gaius commanded urgently. "That causes him severe pain."

Arthur looked to Merlin's white, drawn face at the head of the bunk, and cringed to think how the physician knew that. Gaius tucked the blanket down around his fee- no, his tail-fins – and the movement of the ship caused him to jostle Merlin.

The mer-man gasped and began to move, to struggle.

"Merlin! Merlin? Slow down, calm down, it's all right," Gaius attempted to soothe him. "You're safe, we're taking care of you –"

Arthur, reluctant now to touch him if it might hurt him, watched as he pulled his arms free – and gasped himself. Great patches of the blue scales had disappeared - rubbed off or scratched off or something – leaving pale skin exposed. Merlin's hands were almost entirely bare, the webbing between his fingers as dried and shrunken as his tail-fins.

"What did you do to me?" Merlin choked.

Arthur moved instinctively – not to get out of Gaius' way as the tending physician – but to get closer to the suffering patient. "Merlin," he said gently, trying to capture the other's attention away from the changes. "We'll take care of you. I promise." Merlin's eyes shifted to lock with Arthur's, and he felt the depth of the promise he was making. And meant every word. "I promise."

As his eyes dropped shut, a whine escaped Merlin's throat, sounding more like the mer-man's native communication. Then he whispered, as if repeating, "Make it stop…"

Arthur had been with wounded men, even dying men. But none so youthful or innocent as Merlin. He knew better than to promise something that was not in his power to deliver, but he couldn't help it. "You're going to be all right." His fingers moved of their own accord to brush and tangle gently in the locks of hair. "We're here with you."

It might have been his imagination that Merlin nodded against his hand.

Gaius sighed as his patient slowly calmed and stilled into slumber – though the wrinkle between black eyebrows warned Arthur, it was probably not all peaceful. "That spell of adaptability," he said. "It must have been a phenomenal piece of magic. Linked to similar abilities – even if only a trace – in certain members of the population to accomplish a transformation that must have been extremely swift, to prevent death by drowning in such a catastrophe. It must be something that their young are born with, now – I believe it is still actively working."

"What do you mean?" Arthur said, wanting to be sure he didn't misunderstand.

"In reverse."

He stared at his oldest friend, who gave a single nod of weary confirmation, then looked back down at Merlin. One bare arm now lay outside the blanket, mottled skin-and-scale.

"You think he's turning back into a human," he said. Well, not _back_ , since Merlin had personally never been a human, but…

"If my calculation is correct, he has two or three hours left," Gaius said. "Before he is completely human."

"Did we do this to him?" Arthur said softly, unable to banish Merlin's anguished accusing cry from memory.

"I don't believe he anticipated this possibility, when he asked to remain on board," Gaius answered in the same low, gentle tone. "How could we?"

"What if he's –" Angry? Shocked catatonic? Helplessly miserable?

Unable to use his magic?

"What if he's what, Arthur?"

"Never mind." Two hours, or three, and then they'd see. "Never mind," he repeated, more determinedly. "No matter what else happens, we help him as much as we can. That's orders for everyone."

Gaius' severity lessened. "I would expect no less from you, Arthur."

"Let me know, if I can do anything?" he added. "And when he's ready to talk to me… Right now, I've got to speak to Lancelot."

Gaius answered with an all-inclusive, "Of course."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"He's waking up, I think."

"Out, then. Out! Give him some privacy, for heavens' sake, some… time to adjust."

"But what if he –"

"Just wait outside. If he calls out, we'll hear him."

Silence.

This time, when he woke to the movement of air through nose and mouth, into his lungs, the sight of wooden timbers and a gently-swinging lantern, there was no alarm. He knew where he was. On Arthur's boat.

And he remembered, a little, why he was no longer looking up at the sky. Why there was a soft pad beneath him, rather than the deck.

He lifted his arms, shivering at the close brush of fabric that was neither plant material nor the hide of a sea-animal, and brought his hands before his face. Small round pink palms, small round pink nails.

Those were his hands, they moved at his attempts to move. And his forearms – _so much skin_. His scales were gone.

There was a sense of rising panic somewhere deep within, but that confused him, so he ignored it in favor of deciding to remaining calm. Instead he brought those naked fingertips to his neck – perfectly smooth. No gill-ridges.

For some reason this made him fear that he could not breathe, and his lungs worked harder, as strangely-sensitive hands continued down over his heaving chest, pushing the fabric down his body.

Oh… damn. No scales. None at all.

He shot up reactively – not a single smooth unbroken movement but a series of awkward, jerky struggles – and his naked chest was forgotten in the horror of the two angular lumps in the blanket remaining over his lower half.

Those rather disgusting human joints. Knees.

And if the skin felt strange on his upper body, the nerves and muscles his brain convinced him were part of his lower body, now, were absolutely alien.

His fingers reached to pluck at the blanket, drawing it up… up… to reveal two ugly, naked human feet. Those stubby nail-ended toes, the narrow fan-ridges of tendons and exposed veins, knobby ankles. Even dark rough hairs sprouting from… legs.

Numbly he experimented with unfamiliar muscles, and the toes wiggled.

It was kind of… amusing.

Kind of frightening.

He looked away, looked around the tiny cramped room he occupied alone. There were other sleeping-platforms like the one he… _sat_ in… just opposite was a tray with thick slabs of pale-brown he recognized from his meals with Gwaine. Ships'-bread, he remembered, tough on the teeth but better if dipped in wine or broth or even water – and there was a flask.

He reached – and his balance was wrong – and he nearly tumbled down to the floor. Steadying himself with a grip on his padded platform – and a few deliberate breaths through his nostrils – he tried to twist around as he would with his tail.

His legs separated. One flopping down over the edge, the other bending at the knee as the knobby ankle stuck in the blanket.

Nausea rose sour and hot in his throat – that shouldn't happen to him, it was so unnatural... He shuddered at the memory of his nightmare, the sore ache that still permeated to his – heavy thick bones. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. This was not supposed to happen.

 _Stop it_ , he told himself. _Just stop. Legs aren't disgusting, don't be prejudiced._

 _Your ancestors had them._

He blinked at the pale skin and coarse hairs and wondered how the first of his people had reacted to the spell that gave them tails and gills and scales. Had they understood what happened, and why? Had they wept and bemoaned their fate? Had they cheerfully made the best of things?

Adapted?

Deliberately he focused, and moved his right leg – _his. right. leg_ – over the edge. His ankles knocked together, and stung, and he huffed a chuckle that stopped just short of a sob.

But his stomach growled. And that was something he _did_ know how to deal with. He leaned forward to claim the tray, draw it back to the tops of his upper legs.

Gnaw a bite. Add a swallow of water from the flask. Repeat.

He felt the earth's gravity – oddly stronger here on the top of the water – pulling the blood down in his legs. He swung them experimentally. Together… then separately. He rolled the ankle joints and wiggled the toes – and caught sight of his reflection in the tray.

 _Who am I?_

Not Dyn-emris. He was the son of the sea-king, meant to rule Aetlantys, fathoms below.

The tray tilted in his grasp, and the reflection of the candle-lantern flashed in his eyes – _who am I_ – flared and guttered as at a wild draft, then the door opened and he straightened in a reactive jerk, banging his head against the slope of the ship's inner hull against his back. It was Gwaine – a bundle of cloth in one hand, a grin on his face, and concern in his eyes.

"Merlin," he greeted. With the unreserved acceptance of a true friend, no matter what he saw when he looked at…

 _Merlin_.

"It's morning?" His voice sounded a bit raspy, but steady and the words were coherent, he congratulated himself.

"I suppose so," Gwaine answered, closing the door behind him and taking two steps to lean against the sleeping-platform opposite Merlin's, setting down his bundle beside his elbow. "It's your choice, whether to call that breakfast or lunch."

"If I say breakfast… can I get some more for lunch?"

Gwaine grinned and leaned forward to steal a flat chunk of the bread for himself. "You want more of _this_?" he quipped.

Merlin shrugged and focused for the moment on getting a whole slab of ship's-bread into his stomach, followed by at least half the water.

"Need anything for pain?" Gwaine said casually. "Gaius has this foul-tasting potion that really works wonders…"

"No. Thanks, I don't… need it." More slowly, he finished a second piece.

"So," Gwaine said. "Look at you, then, huh? Human?"

"Now I'm as –" he cleared his throat of the last sodden crumbs – "ugly as you all."

"Ugly," Gwaine scoffed, but he was grinning. "Them's fighting words, mate."

"Name your time and place," he responded, managing a tired smile. "I'll be there." Reminded, he felt for his sheath-harness and knife – unsuccessfully.

"We took it off while you were… well." Gwaine reassured him, "You can have it back, but – how about we start with a pair of pants?" He shook out half of the bundle he'd brought with him, revealing the odd forked garment the human men wore. Which meant the other piece was probably a shirt; Merlin shivered again at how vulnerable he felt in only his skin.

He took the pants by the top – noting the string that would tighten them like a supply-bag, and hesitated, looking at Gwaine.

"Go on," the other man encouraged. "Even Prince Arthur does it one leg at a time."

One leg at a time. He bent over, stuffing one foot awkwardly into the tube of fabric – cursed the toes for getting in his way – then the other, drawing them up past the knees, where they bunched with his seat and the material of the blanket still covering him.

"Hop down," Gwaine said, reaching for him like he was the parent and Merlin a very small child.

Hardly understanding his reaction, he glared at the man and wriggled his way off the ledge himself – landing hard so that the bottoms of his feet sent a shock of pain up his legs. Then, incongruously grateful that Gwaine's hands on his shoulders held him upright, he knotted the drawstring over those unsightly bony knobs six inches below his ribs on either side. The top part of the leg bones, he guessed, the way they bent, too.

"By damn," he said breathlessly – three joints on two legs, and they all wanted to buckle. "How do these things _work_?"  
"We'll get to it," Gwaine promised. "You may never be a dancer, but – here, just hold on here for a minute, I'll get your shirt."

Merlin gripped the edge of the platform for sleeping and wobbled, while Gwaine organized his shirt. Over his head first, one arm down a sleeve, then another, and a length of braided rope for a belt over the shirt and around his waist.

"Don't want you sun-burned your first day," Gwaine joked – then paused minutely.

Looking up, Merlin caught a flicker of something in the warrior's dark eyes he rather thought wasn't there often. Uncertainty.

First day. The first of how many?

He pushed away the emotions that threatened his composure. "Okay," he said. "Let's try this walking thing. What comes first?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Arthur," Lancelot said suddenly.

Leon, lounging beside Arthur on the roof of the captain's cabin to clean and oil the harpoons, looked up, but he didn't have to turn to ask the captain what caught his attention; he'd seen Gwaine appear at the forward hatch. And turn to help someone who was slender and black-haired and heart-breakingly clumsy.

"Sire, he's… young," Lancelot added, sounding stunned.

Arthur murmured his agreement; his throat felt suddenly thick. Merlin stumbled at the last step up the companionway to the deck, and Gwaine only just caught him before he sprawled headlong on the deck.

Everyone was watching the pair. And Merlin wasn't stupid; if he didn't realize it yet, he soon would. Arthur wanted to scream at the crew the way Lancelot had done yesterday, to quit staring and get back to work. Except, this time Merlin would understand. And probably that would prove more embarrassing for the young stranger; Arthur knew he himself hated to have any weakness made public, whether it was something he had no control over, or not.

Gwaine looked up at the three of them on the quarterdeck – just orienting himself with who was on-deck, and where – and Arthur raised his hand in simple acknowledgement. _Here if you need me. When you need me_.

Only, Merlin raised his head at that moment, and met his eyes across the deck. Too far away for Arthur to decide what expression the young mer- no, the young _man_ , now – wore.

But Merlin turned deliberately away.

Arthur tried not to take it personally. Tried to think how he would feel, if he fell overboard and discovered he had inadvertently changed species.

Percival finished tying off a line to one of the cleats, and moved to join them. After a moment of discussion, he and Gwaine each had contributed a shoulder to Merlin's grip, and they were making a slow way across the most open part of the deck. And Merlin was walking for the first time under the curious and impersonal gaze of a dozen strangers – on the rolling deck of a ship at sea.

"He's a plucky kid," Lancelot commented softly.

"Think he's angry with me," Arthur said, purposefully leaving the comment ambiguous, whether he was inviting an opinion, or stating his own.

"He probably needs someone to be angry with," Leon observed. "Someone to blame. Right or wrong."

Clearly he wasn't angry with Percival, who'd thrown the net, or Gwaine, who'd persuaded him to board the ship in the first place. Not Leon or Lancelot, upon minimal acquaintance, nor Gaius who'd nursed him through the change. No, it was Arthur he would be angry with, and he understood that even as he could admit a regret that twinged around his heart, that it should be so. That something so drastic and unexpected should have happened at all.

Right or wrong, fault or none, Arthur still felt guilty over each one of Merlin's gawky steps, each stumble. Each snicker. Whether Merlin noticed the scrutiny, whether he heard the sailors' remarks, he ignored it and kept on.

Leon finished with the harpoons and approached the trio twice during the midday hours – the second time with food and drinking water – and Gaius' appearance on deck later in the afternoon caused a quarter-hour's delay in the ongoing lesson. And when the old physician retired below-decks to his domain of sick-bay and galley, Merlin clearly insisted upon continuing his peculiar training alone.

Percival perched on one of the extra overturned long-boats amid-ships, whittling rather aimlessly at a stick of driftwood – eyes on their guest more often than his work – while Gwaine came to sprawl on the roof of the captain's cabin beside Arthur.

"He's stubborn," the devilish warrior commented admiringly, as they watched Merlin trip over the forward hatch cover, fastened open to allow for air movement below-deck. And catch himself, before wavering on, arms extended for balance. "Leon said he was glad we don't share a border with his people, if the warriors are all like him."

Arthur had a feeling no one was like Merlin. And in any case, "They'd be allies," he said. And neither Gwaine nor Lancelot disputed the point.

When Merlin had been an hour alone with his persistent – and improving - exercise, and Arthur's three warriors were otherwise occupied with shipboard tasks, Arthur left his map and instruments of navigation with Lancelot at the wheel, to slip down from the quarterdeck. He seated himself on the second-lowest rung of the wide ladder, and waited.

When Merlin turned to begin his trek back a-stern - holding on to nothing and fighting for some of that extraordinary balance back against twelve-foot swells – he saw him. And perhaps he hesitated and perhaps his jaw set a little tighter, but he came the length of the starboard side and around the third long-boat before turning to rest his hips against the gunnel and cling to one of the stays overhead. Only two paces from Arthur.

"Bloody knees," he moaned – and Arthur glanced down to check, concerned, before realizing the term had probably been picked up from Gwaine to be used less-than-literally. "It's impossible to walk, with them."

"It would be harder, without." Arthur ventured neutrally, "You all right?"

"I'd rather be swimming," Merlin said bluntly, but there was a twinkle of good humor in his blue eyes. "Arthur, about tomorrow… I'm just not sure how much good I'm going to be to you… like this."

"Tomorrow?" Arthur said.

"The kraken?" Merlin prompted, his tone mocking Arthur's apparent forgetfulness a bit.

"Honestly?" Arthur said. "We're grateful for any help you're able and willing to give, but I wasn't going to _assume_." Merlin stared at him, and he pushed to his feet to join the younger man at the rail. "I've had Lancelot set a course that approaches the abyssal obliquely, from the west. So if you choose, I can send a few men and one of the boats, and return you to – wherever you want to go. Back to your home, or anyone you think can… help you…" He gestured toward Merlin's newly-human lower half.

There was a troubled wrinkle between Merlin's brows, and he didn't immediately speak, as if there were many things he might say, and Arthur hoped he hadn't offended him with the offer to bail on the expedition.

Then finally, "No. I left my home to face and fight this monster. No matter what else has changed, my mind hasn't. I don't want this –" he gestured at himself as Arthur had – "to be a weakness for you, but I want to do my part, too."

Arthur half-smiled, impressed – and not for the first time – and inclined his head to show it. If they lived triumphant through their battle, he'd move heaven and earth to make this right for Merlin, however he could.

"Even so, I think it would be best to wait for the warriors your king sends – you would be invaluable as a go-between." Merlin ducked his head as his knees buckled slightly, briefly. "How many do you think might control water or earth, and would they be willing to cooperate with us, too?"

"Half a dozen, maybe," Merlin muttered. "And… I don't know. I think the king will not be happy that I have become human, but… he is reasonable… I would not want to wait for them, but if you think it's best…"

Arthur dared to put his hand on Merlin's shoulder – aware of the fact that his skin might be more sensitive without its accustomed scale-covering.

"You are the bravest mer-person I've ever met," he said – seriously, but daring Merlin to add the obvious retort, _I'm the only mer-person you've ever met_. "But you're still only one person. Never should you feel that you have to do anything alone. There are those around who would help, if you let them."

"That's what a prince does, isn't it," Merlin said slowly, giving him a shy upward glance.

Arthur made a noise of agreement. "You have to let your warriors – your friends – fight. For their honor, for their prince. Even, you have to let them die for you…" Merlin made a grimace of distaste, and Arthur said mildly, "Would you not die for your prince?"

Merlin answered in the same soft tone as the question, "I would die for my _king_."

Hm. Some mystery there. Arthur chose not to press further into the younger man's home-life, especially since his return to it was in question, for one reason and another.

"These changes," Arthur said. "Has it affected your magic?" Merlin cocked his head, glancing out toward the water, then suggestively back at Arthur, who put up his hands defensively. " _Not_ me, this time if you please."

Merlin looked around the ship for inspiration, then a sudden rogue surge crested over the bow, portside. Out of sight behind one of the long-boats, Gwaine hollered, "Oy!"

Arthur was amused – but also intrigued. "How much water, and from what kind of distance?" he asked.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin turned also to look across the expanse toward the horizon. "I don't know," he admitted. "I've trained, of course, for control, but I've never really… pushed my limits."

"Push them," Arthur suggested.

Merlin gave him a last questioning glance, then braced himself – and a stone's-throw off the starboard side, a wave of water twice as high as the others curled backward on its brethren. And held its shape for an impossible pair of heartbeats, before crashing down.

Humans, he'd been told, didn't like what they didn't understand, and feared what they couldn't control.

But Arthur was eager and open with his questions, and didn't hesitate to be as specific as Merlin's childhood teachers, sometimes. Maybe it was the circumstances, that the human prince – for Merlin would never consider himself such; these changes, if irreversible, made it impossible for him to inherit his father's kingdom – wanted to engage the kraken with a full comprehension of all assets, the best plans and contingencies.

He was good at it, too.

Sometimes Merlin could see what he was envisioning when he posed his query – can you make a whirlpool that reaches to the sea-floor? can it pick up someone or something and bring it to the surface? And sometimes he had no glimpse of what prompted a question – can you alter the temperature of the water, how much and how drastically?

Merlin surprised himself, too. His abilities evidently surpassed what he thought himself capable of; he was rather past the age when powers were expected to increase.

But he'd forgotten. In the new company and the new body and the preparations for fighting with his magic, he'd forgotten his own situation.

His father.

What Balinor would think, when he was told Merlin had gone from their home. What he would do, to find him – to reach and protect him. Merlin didn't anticipate that his father would feel and recognize all his magic poured into the water, so swiftly and violently – but he would not know it was done in practice.

Merlin released his last twist of magic – an attempt to form effective liquid shackles for the kraken – and turned to Arthur tired in body and magic, but pleased with their progress.

And then the horn sounded.

A low growl of sound crawled through the air, not human or animal, but ominously sustained.

Arthur's head snapped around, ice-hard eyes searching for the source, the danger. Merlin's hairs stood up on the back of his neck – and his arms, an intensely unpleasant feeling. There was magic in the rolling note, powerful and irresistible, and he knew what it was though he'd never heard it before.

"Damn," he said, desperately quiet and calm. "Oh, he must be angry."

"Who? What was that?" Arthur was giving him less than half his attention. The short locks of his sun-colored hair whipped and tugged in a rising wind.

Merlin tilted his head back to watch, fascinated, as the few scattered clouds gathered and grew almost impossibly fast, dropping low and darkening perceptibly, as the sails billowed and deflated like live things, anxious in the strange conditions. The last dying light of the sun - low over the horizon, a throbbing fiery ball seeming reluctant to quench itself for the night in the waves – spilled across the sea, and them.

"My father," he said. "My king. That was the horn of Trytn. Calling up the storm."


	5. Any Port in a Storm

**Chapter 5: Any Port in a Storm**

Lancelot bellowed orders preparing for the sudden storm. _Take in the sails! Douse all lights – and the galley stove! Man the bilge pumps!_ Arthur braced himself against the growing fury of the sea, wondering if he should tie a line to Merlin, at least.

"Sit down!" he shouted, as the first drops of rain began to patter down, and lightning streaked from heaven to water in the distance. He crouched beside Merlin as the younger man tumbled to the deck in the dubious shelter of the gunnel, trying to keep those gangly legs organized. "Is there anything you can do about this?"

Merlin didn't look scared, only deathly resigned – which was worse, somehow. "Only the horn can start or stop a storm," he called back. "It gives the king power over the water in the air also, you see."

Helluva lot of water in the air, suddenly.

The ship began to toss, lines snapping loose, tardy canvas ripping in the rising gale. They wallowed in a trench, with waves towering over them; the next moment they were flung upward so violently Merlin tumbled against Arthur, and their strength together was not sufficient to push apart against the shifting gravity.

In one flash of lightning Arthur saw Lancelot grimly struggling with the wheel, dark hair blown straight back, Leon gripping the stern railing just behind him, ready to relieve him if and when it became necessary. In another he saw Percival braced to fasten the main hatch cover – keeping water out, and the nonessential sailors in.

In making his way from the forward hatch, Gwaine tripped, and slid down the slippery incline of the wet deck, slamming unceremoniously into Arthur.

"Thought I should warn you!" the warrior bellowed over the shriek of the storm, swinging dripping hair out of his face. "The sailors are a superstitious lot – and they're scared. They figure the storm is Merlin's fault – directly or no – if the sea wants him, let the sea have him! they're saying."

Arthur didn't know how to respond. Imminent death in sudden conditions unsettled the bravest and most loyal – whether talk eased their feelings, or whether they'd actually disobey both captain and prince to carry out their will violently… He was glad that Merlin seemed totally distracted by the wind whipping rain and sodden clothing and hair, and probably hadn't heard.

"Percival and I will keep a lid on the situation below-decks!" Gwaine went on, shouting. "Looks like you'll have to keep him out here, though, 'stead of bringing him down!"

Arthur nodded, watched Gwaine skid his way back to the second hatch and wrestle it closed behind him, then turned back to Merlin, clinging to the rail through the rush of the water – waves cresting over them, draining back out the scuppers at the base. He snorted, bracing himself again; probably he couldn't have forced Merlin below-decks, anyway.

Time passed.

The ship rolled, rose and sank in a never-ending series of stomach-jerking trips over colossal waves. Lightning flashed, and it was impossible to tell whether the water that hit them came from the clouds overhead or the wave-spray around. Drenched was drenched – there was a point at which one could get no wetter, and then took little notice or mind of superfluous water. Though Arthur's heart was in his throat every time they plunged down – fearing they'd keep descending to the bottom of the ocean – the fact that over and over they rose again, still afloat, served to steady his nerves.

Maybe hours later – and starting to hope for some indication of dawn to ease the uproar around them - he pushed to his feet. Staggering to the ladder to the quarterdeck, he climbed halfway and clung. Cupping his hand to his mouth, he hollered his question to the ship's captain, crouched now at the railing as Leon took a turn fighting to hold the wheel steady.

"Way off course, sire!" Lancelot hollered back. "The sea is carrying us far to the west – and fast!"

 _The sea is carrying us_. Shouldn't it be, _the wind is blowing us_?

He lowered himself carefully – at one point, both his legs blew nearly horizontally away from the ladder – blinking his eyes clear to see Merlin on his feet, swaying as he clung to the stays, screaming into the wind.

Arthur stumbled back toward him – _he's so skinny the wind will blow him away_ – and never afterward could quite remember, or define, what happened next.

The ship lurched. The deck dropped away. He might've hit a line, or the gunnel, or maybe just a wave...

Once, when he'd been too young to know any better, he'd taken a dare to ride an unbroken two-year-old colt. One moment the saddle was beneath him, a twist and a hop later, he was airborne with nothing but the dirt far below and inevitable.

This time, it was the water.

It might've been his imagination, to recall that he saw the ship from the outside, masts and yards and hull sketched against black waves and clouds by lightning, weirdly remote – before he hit the water.

The chill of the sea stole his breath away, and the depth of the wave that rolled over him would not allow its return. His perception tumbled, and he did not know which direction was up, to try to swim. But try he did, agonizing moments that stretched toward eternity while his senses tried to convince him that the world had been annihilated by water and that was all that was left, water and him and nothing else not even air…

He entered a darkness that was cold… and muted… and deep.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin's teeth chattered. His whole body was shaking uncontrollably, as unfamiliar limbs fought for balance and stability. And his magic fought for survival for all of them.

He had never fought his father before.

Hunith often said, they were so much alike. They understood each other, which allowed their relationship to progress unusually smoothly for father and growing son. They loved each other and both tried to show it – the son with respect and obedience, the father with toleration and allowance. Neither lost his temper often, and never before with the other.

It made it a little easier, that this storm was not aimed at Merlin. Only, the ship that carried him.

His control was adolescent compared to Balinor's, and with the added command of Trytn's horn, it took every ounce of power he could wring from his soul to keep the ship from keeling over, from sinking.

The magic felt different to him, and he used it without understanding. Fighting blind, allowed not so much as an inch of purchase on the water, still he managed to keep Arthur's ship from being swallowed by the hungry ocean somehow. They were flying on the currents that obeyed the sea-king, but his realm could not claim them, his element could not suck them down.

Merlin kept pulling them up to the air.

How long? He didn't know. It was dark and he was soaked and weary, shaking on the inside from his prolonged and sustained magical defiance of his sworn liege and his beloved parent.

It felt like his heart was splitting, and that hurt more than what his body had already undergone.

He struggled as upright as he could get and screamed into the storm, " _Father, stop! They are not our enemies_!"

The ship listed suddenly, and almost before he could draw breath to replace his desperate – and probably unheard – plea, something slammed into his shoulder, spinning him about. He clutched the rail and stared at the empty square of deck where Arthur had been. Where Arthur should have been.

Leon at the wheel was bellowing – Merlin dragged his gaze up to the quarterdeck – and pointing, Lancelot trying to make his way to the ladder through the deluge.

He spun - and glimpsed the human prince struggling briefly in the waves, further than a stone could be hurled through the air, before a storm-surge crashed down over him.

Arthur did not reappear.

Merlin did not hesitate.

One foot pushed off from the deck, one foot from the rail, and he embraced his homecoming eagerly.

Plunging into the deep water, it was dark and he was slow and clumsy, but his direction was sure and his resolve bedrock-firm. His eyes strained in the murk and the muffled quiet underwater – a white blur – his outstretched hand brushed cloth, then solid warm flesh.

He slid his arm diagonally across Arthur's body, and kicked for the surface.

Only… only… ah, hells, he was human, too.

Arthur was heavier than Merlin was strong, and already unconscious; grim reality leached his brief burst of fear-energy.

He couldn't _breathe_ , and he couldn't _swim_.

For a moment, his eyes cleared and he could see as well as before, below the water. For a moment, he hoped he was changing back – and then he inhaled water.

He sobbed and choked as water filled his mouth, salty and smothering. He could see the surface, roughly lightning-lit above them, could almost reach out and break through – and another monster wave rolled them deep. Disoriented, starting to panic, knowing he was _drowning_ and Arthur probably worse off, he tightened his grip on the prince and fought away from the depths, back toward the air.

Then abruptly, Merlin stopped fighting.

Clung limpet-like to Arthur with his whole body, allowing the water to move them, and focused on _floating_. Like he'd done with the ship. The water could rebel and roil about them if only he could keep their heads in the air to breathe.

It seemed to work.

At least, now he could feel Arthur's body struggling to fill his lungs. Merlin gasped also, throwing his head as far back as he could; the air was heavy and motionless and salty, but it was _air_. Coughing, he tried to push himself higher in the water, tried to see where the ship was – if he could float them back, if maybe a long-boat rescue was being launched – and saw only water all around, like they were inside the curl of a wave, just before it collapsed on itself.

Shadowy figures showed past the threatening wall of water, approaching – one, two, half-a-dozen. Slow and wary, but they were his people.

Relief – they would help… fear. They would help _him_.

Arms encircled him unexpectedly from behind, so like his nightmare he shrieked and thrashed instantly.

" _Son, don't fight me, I've got you, you're safe_."

He let himself go limp, for the moment, supported by his father's familiarity. The black-and-flash of the storm-lightning raged silently above them – between five and ten fathoms above them – but the churn of the surface seemed not as chaotic, as if the storm was abating.

Someone else, someone he didn't recognize but for one of the warriors, floated from the water that surrounded them – covered them – into the pocket of air, and reached to take Arthur. His father's arms twined around him – between his body and Arthur's.

" _Let go_ ," his king ordered in his ear. " _Release the human, it will not hurt you any longer. You're safe, I promise. We have Dyn, we can let the humans' ship go_ –" this Merlin's confused brain recognized was addressed to the other warrior – " _but take this one and get rid of it_."

" _No_!" Merlin cried out, kicking to be able to use his legs to keep Arthur. " _No_!" Any rational explanation was lost in overwhelming fear and helplessness and exhaustion; he reverted to an almost childish tantrum. " _He's mine_!"

" _Dyn-emris, do not fight me_ ," his father insisted in his ear, gentle but strong – they were stronger than him, they'd separate them and abandon Arthur to his death.

" _Save him too_ ," he demanded – begged – as the weakness in his arms and hands and fingers betrayed him and Arthur was drawn away by the other warrior, little by little. " _As you love me – oh my father! – save him too_."

No response. He couldn't tell that his father had heard him at all.

Merlin sobbed and cursed and struggled and screamed – " _As you trust me_! _He must live_!"

As he felt his connection to Arthur slip away, the water came rushing back and he choked. He never had fought his father physically before, either, but he did now. His fists and heels were slow and weak in the water and he wasn't sure if he was fighting to get to Arthur or the air – both equally as vital, in his mind at the moment –

" _Dyn_." Balinor's arms were unyielding, but his voice was calm. " _Focus on the air. You must breathe as the humans do, now. Think of the air, and we will bring him, too._ "

He felt his head drop back onto his father's shoulder, heavily, involuntarily, as they both seemed to break the surface once again, into the close, dark air. Beside the unknown warrior – clearly unhappy to be burdened with Arthur's body – another mer-person appeared, and Merlin recognized orange.

" _William_ ," he managed. " _Please don't let him die_." His friend gave him a nod of tentative promise.

Merlin felt the rush of the water around his body, the plucking of the current at his human limbs as if he were pulled through a great stand of sea-grass. Carried, he breathed, and knew no more.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur woke feeling damp and battered. There was a rattle in his chest that he wanted to cough out, but the scratch of air down his throat warned him, he better not. At least, not right away.

He smelled salt water and heard tiny gentle ripples – and maybe someone humming. It sounded feminine, and calming.

Cracking salt-crusted eyes open – he'd rub them later when his body felt less sore, and more like moving – he saw the blue of the sky, far away and in a circular shape. Like the moon, contradictory as the concept was. He blinked and shifted his gaze – gray walls surrounded him, also in a circular formation like a great hollow tower… He watched until the pattern of man-formed stones became familiar to him, and then he dared move his head.

One side of the curving wall was very close – close enough to touch, were he yet inclined to move. Underneath him, more of the stone, it felt like, but smooth rather than rough or jagged.

The humming continued – was it in his head? had his ears suffered, or his brain? when… what had happened? – but it was accompanied now by a dry rasp that set Arthur's teeth on edge.

He turned the other way.

And saw, from behind and to the right, a man's head and shoulders, down by Arthur's own feet. His attention got stuck trying to figure if the man was dressed or not, that tan-orange color surely wasn't his skin, but there was no edge of fabric visible, so –

The man – young man, light brown hair also with an orange tint plastered wetly to his skull – turned his head. He made a series of steely whines and severe clicks without opening his mouth – and Arthur's memory jerked him back to the present, even without the sight of a familiar-looking stone knife held in a long-nailed, orange-webbed hand.

The sea-monster… the voyage… Merlin… the storm.

Arthur rolled, seeing first his threatening companion's orange-brown-scaled torso – then the water that filled the tower, lapping at the rubble around the edges, mounded in the middle – then Merlin.

His first astonishment that two more mer-people flanked his newest friend was quickly overwhelmed by sharp worry.

The younger man was sprawled on his back on a tilted slab, itself half-submerged though Merlin's bare feet were above the waterline. He looked even skinnier, motionless and in sodden clothing. His eyes were closed – but his chest moved, slowly and steadily – and Arthur breathed a little easier himself.

He ignored the menacing mer-man just next to him, having recognized warning over actual intent to harm, and scrutinized the two beside Merlin for a moment before he opened his mouth to call out.

The purple one caught the eye quicker than the other – Arthur assumed _female_ by the color, even before his eyes traveled the gradation of hue from the rhythmically-flipped tail to the unmistakably-endowed torso. Also scaled – and evidently no modesty compromised – like a human girl might have looked wearing a skin-tight shirt of amethyst scales. Brunette curls tumbled damply down to her shoulders; she was prone and edged up right next to Merlin's side, half on the slab and half in the water beside.

Arthur noted that she held Merlin's hand unobtrusively at his side, and nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck – though carefully and gently. And something told him _sister_ wasn't quite right.

The second mer-person opposite was a mer-maid as well, by the plaited hair wound about her head - though did _maid_ apply to a female in middle age? Her scales were a muted brown-green – darkest moss at the tail-fin, fading to the faintest lichen-color around shoulders and neck; she wore a fitted vest of soft thin hide a light fawn color that complimented the scales.

She plied a needle and thread – bone and maybe some gut material – working a long slender strip of the same hide material. That surprised Arthur – what didn't surprise him was that she was the one humming. Or that she lowered her work – _sewing_ was such an odd thought, though why not – into the lap part of her body to lean over Merlin, brush his hair with her fingers, and exchange a clear look of sympathy and concern, with the younger female.

 _Mother_ , Arthur's instincts labeled her, with a bittersweet pang of nostalgia.

All this he saw in a pair of moments, before he'd wriggled his body into a position where he could sit up.

"Merlin," he croaked out, and lost anything else in a coughing spasm.

The two females looked at him – the older alert, the younger alarmed. The orange-brown male clicked and growled at him, raising himself half out of the water with one hand on the slab where Arthur had lain, leading with his knife in the other.

Arthur figured he had the advantage for the moment, in their current position – but the ledge was narrow, and once in the water he would not be the victor of any altercation. He drew his feet back quickly, rising and moving to the side – further from the male, trying to find a way across the distance to the piled rubble in the middle that did not involve getting into the water between them.

The older green female hummed and clicked, glancing from Arthur to the young mer-man, who subsided to sharpening his knife rather than attempting to use it. But glared sulkily at Arthur.

Who turned his attention back to Merlin – who was beginning to stir.

That caught the nervous attention of the purple girl away from Arthur. She hovered, touching his face and crooning mostly, with a few soft sounds from her tongue. The green female set her work on the stone somewhere behind her - and didn't seem offended that Merlin turned his face toward the girl at her urging, before opening his eyes.

It took a moment that concerned Arthur, before recognition spread a tired sappy smile over Merlin's face – then the girl bent and kissed him on the mouth. Gently, sweetly, as if they had done it before. Arthur felt his eyebrows lift – though the mother looked unsurprised, and the brown-orange male huffed and murmured something sarcastic-sounding in the back of his throat. Then the girl pulled back to allow the mother to drop a kiss on Merlin's forehead – his smile changing for her, but no less brilliant.

Merlin made a questioning squeal-sound, which the mother responded to with a smile, a nod, and a pointed finger. He lifted his head and looked at Arthur – and for the briefest moment a worry brushed past him, before the younger man's smile grew to a genuine grin.

In return, Arthur didn't bother trying to hide his own. Much.

Before he could mold his feelings into some nonchalant quip, the purple girl made some suggestion that seemed acceptable to Merlin and the mother, and slipped into the water to disappear below the surface, with a last wary glance at Arthur.

"That's… Freya," Merlin told him, struggling up to one elbow, testing the name a few more times, til he was satisfied he'd translated it properly into human speech. Arthur noticed he was still pale, and trembled a bit; his mother supported him unobtrusively. "She's afraid of you, I think."

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, glancing about again to see if he could find a way to cross without getting wet again – there didn't seem to be one.

"It's not you. We've just… never had humans here before." Merlin seemed to stare at his own body, sprawled out before him on the slab, before giving his head a shake and lifting it. "This is my mother," he said, turning to include the older green female behind him. "Her name is… Hunith."

Arthur made a little bow and said, "I'm very pleased to meet her," but she was speaking to Merlin over his words, with a soft smile at him that took away any offense.

"She said she's sorry about the circumstances, and wishes she could give you a more personal greeting." Merlin shrugged uncomfortably. "It's orders, that no one's allowed close to you."

Or, that he was not allowed close to any of them. Arthur understood; it had been the same instinct that had him warning Gwaine to keep his distance. Unfamiliarity and uncertainty and concern for safety.

"What about –" He gestured inoffensively at the orange-brown male – _guard_ , he supposed now.

"That's… Will. William? Will."

"I don't think Will likes me much either," Arthur remarked.

Will tested the edge of his stone blade with a scaled thumb and squealed, softly sardonic, in the back of his throat.

Merlin chuckled, nodding his head, and struggled to get up onto the heel of his hand rather than his elbow for support. "He says humans can't swim worth a damn."

Arthur grunted to demonstrate how unimpressed he was – and Will seemed to catch his meaning, one eyebrow raised in amusement – and Merlin spoke again without meeting Arthur's gaze.

"I think the comment was aimed at me more than you, sire." Arthur didn't know quite what to say to that; Merlin added, "He saved your life."

Arthur looked down at Will, then stepped closer – slow and without aggression – knelt and held out his hand. "Thank you."

Will looked at Merlin, who squealed and clicked and mimed the proper shaking motion. But instead of his hand, Will gave Arthur a derisive look, snort, and toss of his head.

"We don't do that," Merlin tried to excuse. "Shaking hands."

Arthur said without thinking, "You did."

A wrinkle appeared between Merlin's black brows, and Arthur thought probably it was a mistake to remind him of the differences between him and his fellows. On board ship, for Merlin to bravely accept inadvertent changes was one thing, but here with his family and friends…

"What happened?" he said, as a way of changing the subject, and was rewarded with a half-smile.

"You fell overboard."

Arthur did remember something like that. Only, in a magical squall, he supposed there was little shame in it. "What about you?" he asked, and read the truth in Merlin's ducked head and raised color. The younger man had jumped in after him, or some such. "What about the storm? The ship?"

"I don't know," Merlin admitted. "I think the storm was ended when they rescued us. I think the ship was fine, too - they probably just… left it."

"Well…" Arthur was alive and well – he wanted to rejoin his men, eat and change clothes, but there were no obvious exits from the tower. "Is there anyone I can ask for sure? I mean, how do I get out of here? My men…" Merlin wasn't meeting his eyes again, was retreating in on himself in a manner very like a cringe with every sentence Arthur spoke – he faltered, not intending that. "The… monster, Merlin. Is still out there? I still have a mission."

Merlin nodded, drawing his knees up stiffly and slowly. Hunith murmured something at his side, and he nodded, beginning then to say, "The king will have to –"

Arthur's attention was caught by the arrival of another mer-person, subtle but stately, and he knew the newcomer for a male before even the shoulders emerged. From his single authoritative glance at Arthur, he guessed him for the king even before he saw the curled-and-flared conch shell on a securing strap over head and one shoulder, just below the knife-sheath harness.

The mature male had silver-streaked dark hair longer than Gwaine's, but it was kingly rather than tousled, swept back from firm features and a short beard. Judging by his muscular arms – visible as he swam as his tail was not – his coloring was all-gray, dark gleaming charcoal to luminous smoky-pearl at his throat.

The green female touched Merlin's arm to alert him with a sympathetic smile, but didn't retreat. Merlin's head shot up – and he seemed to forget Arthur entirely, so focused was he on the king.

Arthur watched with an increasing interest.

There was nothing subservient in Merlin's bearing or expression, but – hope, hesitation, longing… maybe desperation. He let his legs drop as the king came up next to him.

The older mer-man's expression was unreadable to Arthur as he examined Merlin's physical changes. He spoke with a guttural curl of sound, and harsher clicks – but it seemed more caring than condemning to Arthur.

Merlin responded with a longer, faster string of sounds – and gestures included – and seemed to lose his grip on his composure as he… told the tale. Gave the explanation.

Oh, he was young. And the agony and vulnerability in his eyes wrung Arthur's heart – he looked down and noticed Will pretending not to listen or watch.

The king murmured something, putting his gray-scaled hand on Merlin's wet-trousered knee. Merlin shook his head; it looked to Arthur as if he were fighting to keep his expression even. Then a sob burst from him, choked but so painful-sounding it was no wonder a second followed.

And then, to Arthur's astonishment, the king hauled himself up to the slab and gathered the young man in his arms. Tenderly.

Arthur could not picture Uther doing the same to any one of the young knights, no matter their injury or sacrifice or state of mind; he himself had rarely experienced such an expression of feeling from his fath-

Oh.

The green-brown female, tears running silently down her own face, had joined the embrace, with Merlin between them. Her hands rested on the king's arms in a way that was familiar and proprietary as well as comforting, and if color wasn't hereditary…

Arthur let suddenly weak knees drop him back down to a crouch on his own slab. "By damn," he said blankly, softly, half to the orange-brown guard. "The king is his father, isn't he?"

Will looked up at him inquiringly, but Arthur didn't really need his question answered to know the truth.

 _My father… my king_ , Merlin had said, in the same breath, more than once.

 _Something like a scout – followed by others –_

 _I would not want to wait for them – I would die for my king – that's what a prince does._

Arthur sat and thought disjointedly, he was lucky to be alive. No wonder the sea-king had called the storm. Under similar circumstances, Uther would probably have left no survivors.

But now Merlin was gulping and wiping his face on his sleeves, resisting further parental comfort; Arthur prepared himself to face a king that might very well be prepared to consider himself an enemy.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

For one moment, Merlin's father was his whole world.

Past, present, future – all depended on Balinor's reaction. Disobedience, rebellion, recklessness – Merlin understood how greatly he had trespassed on the patience and allowance of his king. He scrutinized the man he loved so well, respected and admired and hoped to emulate, as if his life depended on him. As of course it did, and always had.

There was no stern censure, no distant disapproval, no enduring disappointment. Balinor was gravely serious – as the situation warranted – but his dark eyes held compassion and sympathy, not judgment.

Merlin was already forgiven.

There were consequences still to be faced, but… faced together. His relief was almost painful, as his father came close enough to touch.

" _What happened, Dyn_ ," he said, looking over Merlin's human body, though surely not for the first time. " _They caught you? What did they do to you_?"

" _No, Father – they did nothing, it was my fault. I wanted to show you, I could fight too – meeting the humans was an accident, but then when I could understand them, I thought to cooperate with their efforts – they want to kill the kraken too – I went on their ship with them_ …" Seeing the dangerous light in Balinor's eyes, he corrected swiftly, " _No, I asked them to allow it – while I slept I was caught in nightmares and when I woke_ …" He pushed his sleeves back to expose bare arm. " _I was like this_."

" _They did nothing to you_?" Balinor questioned closely. " _They cannot change you back_?"

" _No, their – one of their men, he said that Trytn's spell_ …"

Merlin saw from his father's face that he had no idea what to do either, and his last hope left him. Left him devastated, and fighting absolute despair.

" _Father, I can't swim and I can't walk, and I can't_ …" Can't breathe underwater and can't live here and can't be with Freya like this and don't belong anywhere else…

And though he had rested, and felt himself safe, all the emotion of the past half-week combined to overwhelm him – pain and fear and uncertainty and doubt – a sob rose in his throat and he couldn't contain it and it felt like it ripped his chest apart and he was so tired of being _torn_.

Part of his mind seemed to sit back and watch in astonishment as his body succumbed to a fit of sobbing, but his father's embrace – and then his mother's – removed all barriers and his full heart overflowed.

For a time.

And then he remembered, Arthur was present. And he didn't suppose it was considered admirable for a human prince to break down in tears either, so he wrestled his breathing into submission to his will, and scrubbed the damp sleeve of his borrowed shirt over his eyes.

" _Be calm, Dyn-emris_ ," his father told him quietly. " _Trytn's magic was never meant to harm us. There is more to this than we have seen_."

" _What do you mean_ ," he said.

" _You consider your human an ally_?" Balinor said, sliding back into the water from the slab – almost it had been amusing for Merlin to wake there, of all places – and Merlin glanced briefly at Arthur over his father's head. A bit the worse for wear, but definitely alive and more than ready to return to face their foe.

" _Yes_ ," Merlin said.

" _And this one has a position of some authority_?"

Merlin hesitated to say, prince. " _He leads the fighting men? There is another who governs the ship and the men who sail it, but he takes orders from Arthur_."

" _Freya, I take it, is bringing something to eat_ ," Balinor said. " _Then perhaps your Arthur and I will find a discussion of the kraken to our mutual benefit_."

 **A/N: I totally wanted to name this chapter** _ **The Tempest**_ **. *big grin***

 **Also, you probably noticed, I put the mer-people's language in italics to differentiate – and will continue to do that with the rest of the fic, where applicable in Merlin's pov. Sorry if there's any confusion.**

Kirsten: Glad you liked the interaction between all the guys last chapter – kind of left them behind for this one, though we will get back to that humans + merpeople battle plan!


	6. Diplomatic Relations

**A/N: Again, just a reminder, the mer-people's language is in italics.**

 **Chapter 6: Diplomatic Relations**

Merlin saw Freya returning from the submerged palace eight fathoms below, and scooted down the slab into the water in anticipation of sharing the provisions she was bringing. Arthur would probably not wish to get wet again, and Merlin couldn't help hoping, maybe with enough contact with the water… And in any case, he'd always love the feel of it, even it was noticeably cooler over human skin.

He paddled across the tower pool, ignoring Will's mocking look, then kicked and wriggled to pull himself up to sitting, next to Arthur. Leaving his legs and bare feet dangling in the water, he considered kicking Will – then again, Will would probably retaliate by pulling him down for a ducking, and he didn't care for the inevitable reminder of his inferiority as a human, as far as underwater endurance and agility were concerned.

Arthur lowered himself to an odd and awkward-looking cross-legged seat beside him – though sailors at least in particular and maybe all humans in general seemed to prefer it.

"So the king is your father," Arthur said, and Merlin couldn't read him very well yet, if he was angry or offended or what.

"I'll introduce you properly in a bit," he promised, not really answering. "We're to eat first and then talk – but probably he wants to watch you and decide if you're trustworthy."

Arthur's eyes had been on Balinor, in quiet conversation with his wife across the tilted preparation-slab, as Merlin spoke, but his mouth quirked and his head tipped before he turned his gaze on Merlin. "Is that what you were doing at the island?" he said. "Before we used the net and Gwaine suggested a friendlier way of getting to know one another?"

Merlin smiled, glad that Arthur had not chosen to take offense.

Freya surfaced to approach his parents first, with her supply-bag of food-stuffs. They declined; probably they'd eaten already, but his stomach pinched and growled. Freya turned and swam across to them, keeping to Merlin's end of the slab and politely ignoring Arthur. As she laid out the offering beside him, he passed it across his lap to set between him and Arthur.

"It's not what you're used to," he said apologetically, carefully handling the long delicate tubes of sea-grapes, then lining up the iridescent-red bite-size pieces. "This is… blue-tail? yellow-tail? fish. In red algae. We've been eating it for generations, it won't… make you sick."

"It's fine, Merlin," Arthur said, watching him shove a bite in his own mouth first, but then gamely followed his lead. "I imagine we'll have to wait for _fresh_ drinking water? Tell her thank you, though."

Freya had finished, and began to move away, but Merlin caught her wrist.

In spite of having woken to her declaration of concern and relief, he worried. Will could mock and tease, and his parents' love was reassuringly unconditional, but this was different. Aware of Arthur and Will just behind him, and his parents nearby, he slipped back into the water, keeping one hand on the slab for balance, just next to her.

" _I'm sorry_ ," he said to her. " _About this_."

" _It's all right_ ," she answered, equally quiet. Private without being alone. " _It was a shock to see you – I guess for you as well_ …"

" _I look very ugly now_?" Merlin said lightly, knowing if Will were to overhear, he'd get a very different answer.

She lifted her hand swiftly from the water to press to his face. " _Never_."

He covered her hand with his and closed his eyes, feeling his lungs compress a bit just by being in this much water. By damn, he missed that tougher covering of scales.

" _Does your father know what to do_?"

Merlin pressed his lips together and shook his head slowly. And for a moment of deafening silence, neither of them said, what if the change is permanent – but both of them were probably thinking it.

" _M, your parents_ ," she murmured.

He didn't open his eyes or release her hand, in spite of the members of their audience. He needed this, needed her acceptance and love, no matter what happened to him, no matter what the future held. Sure now that she'd leave her hand cupping his face, he pulled her closer one-handed and trailed his fingers over the scales on her back. " _Freya will you marry me_."

A little ripple of emotion shuddered through her.

" _I know_ ," he added hurriedly. " _We're too young and I haven't got my parents' consent and as long as I'm like this_ –"

" _We can't_ ," she finished bleakly. Below the waterline and hidden by their bodies, her other hand caressed him as his did her – though in her touch was the hesitation of feeling unfamiliarly human cloth and skin on his back and side.

" _Would you_ ," he said, looking now into the deep warm pools of her brown eyes. " _I mean, if all that could be gotten over_ …" And now he regretted speaking his mind; he didn't want her answer influenced by sympathy or the caring of friendship only. " _I'm not_ asking _you asking you, I just need_ …"

" _Some hope_?" she ventured, and a little smile lit her face gently. " _I love you. That won't change, okay? If you were to_ ask _me, ask me – I would say yes_."

" _Then_ ," he said. " _I will find a way to change back_."

" _Your father's looking at me_ ," she said. " _I have to go_."

Merlin nodded and released her; she twisted away and ducked down into the water to leave the tower again. He looked across to meet his father's eyes – the calculating look on Balinor's face softened slightly as Hunith pulled him down to speak in his ear, and Merlin hauled himself up to join Arthur in sitting on the slab again.

"So she's your girl," Arthur remarked, licking his thumb after shoving another red algae-wrapped bite of fish into his mouth.

As complicated as that was, now, he didn't have another, and she hadn't given anyone else reason to say that of her. Merlin crammed a few bites into his mouth himself, though, before he answered. "Yes."

"Is it official?" Arthur asked. "You do seem a bit young for that."

"No – I mean, we are." Merlin swished his legs pensively in the water, and shivered with the chill of wet clothes on his skin. "I may not be allowed to marry her – my father has to consent and there are – heritage issues." Arthur made an understanding noise, and in that moment, Merlin found himself able to relax and smile. "It is the same for you?" he guessed.

"It is." Arthur gave him an ironic sideways look. "The prince is the also the sire of the next heir, after all. Thought must be given to pedigree."

"Yes, but… love and happiness should enter into the choice, also," he said.

"We can hope," Arthur said, with optimism. "Good luck with her."

"Good luck with him," Merlin blurted, as his father crossed toward them with one powerful movement of his tail. He scrambled back to give his father room at the slab, though Balinor only braced his elbows on it and leaned forward over them, not at all diminished in authority to be resting lower than the two of them.

" _The food is to his liking_?" Balinor said to Merlin, his eyes on Arthur. " _He is satisfied_?"

Merlin relayed the question as Arthur swallowed and leaned forward to rinse his hands in the water, drying them on his shirt with dignity before answering. "Yes, I'm very grateful for your hospitality – and your help in the storm. I owe you my life."

Balinor listened to Merlin translate. " _He knows I called the storm, with the horn_?"

" _I told him_."

Both of them looked at Arthur. " _And still he is grateful to be alive and fed, rather than angry at the cause of his misfortune. Do you think this is because he still considers himself at our mercy, or would he say the same if he stood upon a dock with an army at his back_?"

" _No_ ," Merlin said. " _I mean, yes. I think he understands, about the storm. I… I didn't tell him, who I was. He thought I was just… a scout_."

" _He didn't know you were royalty_ ," Balinor said, and a reluctant smile showed under his beard. " _Well, it seems you weren't completely careless, after all_."

Merlin wasn't offended. " _If he knew, he probably would have refused my help_ ," he said, drawing his knees up and hugging them for a bit of extra warmth. " _He wouldn't have let me risk myself, without permission_." Balinor raised an eyebrow, and Merlin felt himself flush. " _I am sorry_."

" _I am Balinor, King of the Mer-People_ ," his father said, addressing Arthur directly. " _You are welcome to Aetlantys, as long as your intentions are peaceful, and you do not upset the balance of the seas_."

" _Hold out your hand like so_ ," Merlin told his father, " _it is a sign of respect for them to clasp and shake it._ "

Arthur immediately met the salute with his own hand, but the moment he recognized Merlin's translation for the official greeting, he drew back and inclined head and shoulders with more formal respect. "I am Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot," he said. "We have come to kill the kraken that is responsible for sinking our ships and drowning their crews and passengers – I hope that doesn't upset the balance of your sea?" he added to Merlin.

"No – that's more about, overfishing an area, or hunting one kind of creature for a single purpose. Like… seals for only their skin, or whales only for the oil." Arthur looked a bit relieved, and Merlin added, "You want him to know you're a prince?"

"You haven't told him yet?" Arthur was surprised, then reconsidered. "There are those who would – consider it an advantage, to hold a prince alone and vulnerable and maybe thought lost to his companions… I do not believe your king to be one of them."

Merlin grinned suddenly. "He's not." To his father he said, " _Prince Arthur of the human kingdom. I reminded him of the consideration I was shown on-board his ship, and he trusts in our honor to treat him as respectfully_."

Balinor made a thoughtful noise, flipping his tail languidly through deeper water. " _He is his father's heir also_?" Merlin nodded, and his father looked the human prince over with a new interest, before glancing back at his son. " _Hells, you're a pair_." Balinor sighed. " _Well, perhaps you can learn something from him after all. He's after the kraken? And is still open to a cooperative effort, between our warriors and his_?"

Merlin said to Arthur, "He wants to know, if our warriors can fight the kraken together."

Arthur leaned forward, intently if not eagerly. "Yes – there is no reason not to?"

"The storm?" Merlin said. Arthur looked at him, and he added more quietly, "My fault. I wasn't supposed to go. And when he felt my magic, through the water…"

"He thought we'd caught you and you were fighting us, or that we were forcing you to use your magic against fight the beast?" Arthur guessed. "No – well, maybe some of the sailors would hesitate, but they'll follow orders. What does your father have in mind?"

Wearily Merlin turned to relay the question – and interrupted himself asking one of his own. " _Father, I was able to begin to understand their language, quite soon, are you… do you think you might_ …"

He stopped, at a glimmer of humor in his father's eye, though Balinor's expression remained politely expectant. He probably did understand Arthur, a little anyway, and more as they talked. But he'd also understand Merlin's translations, and any warning he might think to give Arthur about the king's comprehension. A bit grumpily, he turned back to Arthur.

"We thought to lure it from its lair, surround it and attack from all sides, again and again until we overwhelmed it and defeated it."

"That sounds – bloody dangerous," Arthur said, when Merlin translated.

"Our warriors would count it an honorable death, protecting our people also from the kraken," Merlin told him.

Arthur thought for a moment. "Your people have the advantage of greater mobility in the water," he thought aloud. "But your use of weapons is hindered, and each warrior more vulnerable."

"What was your plan?" Merlin asked, curious. He listened to Arthur's ideas, then in turn explained the three long-boats, the hatchets and harpoons, to his father, who nodded.

" _It is essentially the same strategy_ ," Balinor said slowly. " _They want to surround it and strike many times from all directions, and hope that they do not all perish in killing it._ "

"We'd have to wait for it to notice us first," Arthur spoke immediately after. "And then try to react as soon as we knew it was attacking us – but you have a better way of – bringing it out to an ambush?"

"Where it lives," Merlin explained, demonstrating with his hands. "You say, abyssal. Our warriors who can move the earth will force it out." He closed his hands.

"Could we trap it there?" Arthur asked immediately, looking from Merlin to his father and using the same gesture, closing his palms together. "And just crush it?"

" _No, the earth moves too slowly, and the kraken is too large for the effort that would take_ ," Balinor answered, giving his head a shake. " _This measure will only drive it out at our timing_."

"Okay," Arthur answered, understanding the negative without seeming to notice that Balinor had not waited for his son's translation. "What about forcing it to the surface, where all our fighters can have at it, at once?" Merlin was in the middle of relaying the question – and chafing under the probability that it wasn't necessary – when Arthur spoke again. "What about keeping it there? Limiting its mobility?"

" _How, exactly_?" Balinor said to Merlin.

Who wordlessly demonstrated, calling up a curl of water from the tower pool, forming and hardening it around his own forearm. Will exclaimed in surprise from his guard-position, watching but not listening at a little distance, and Hunith came closer to feel what he'd done curiously. Balinor was more familiar with the concept, being able to manipulate the water element himself, but Merlin's mother had no magic of her own.

Balinor wasn't completely convinced. " _The monster is larger than you might think_ ," he warned both of them. " _That might work upon its tentacles – might. Depending on the strength and focus of the caster attempting the magic_ …" He rubbed his fingers through his beard, probably considering his warriors, and Merlin let the water splash down into the pool again. " _That enchantment can be broken, though, and the head remains to be dealt with in any case_ …"

" _But if the humans are chopping through the arms, we won't have to hold them forever_ ," Merlin argued. " _They won't grow back – how many would we have to remove to cripple the kraken so it will be unable to survive_?"

Balinor's face twisted in disgust and consideration.

"What about ice?" Arthur said.

Merlin looked at him. Balinor betrayed his growing understanding of the human language by doing the same, at the same moment.

"Can you alter the temperature of the water by that much? It would be slower in colder water, at least, wouldn't it?"

Balinor turned, supported on the slab by one elbow, and gestured to the water himself. A similar wave-bond rose – freezing as it came. But it lasted no more than the space of a breath. " _It takes twice as much_ ," Balinor told Merlin, unperturbed at Arthur's reaction of disappointment. " _Control, focus, strength. You or I could hold it frozen so - but none of the others, not without training, which we haven't time for. It should be, one or the other, for effectiveness_."

Merlin began to explain the limitations of their magic to Arthur, but diverted when his mother murmured to his father, " _Surely you aren't thinking of taking Dyn along, are you_?"

" _Your magic is unaffected by these changes in your body_?" Balinor questioned Merlin mildly, as a way of answering. Merlin nodded, but Hunith took no notice.

" _Balinor, no. Look at him, he is vulnerable like this – Dyn-emris do not argue with me, you know it yourself. If it was too dangerous for our son to undertake this mission a week ago, my lord, it is doubly so now_!"

The king didn't immediately answer, just reached out and drew his hand down Hunith's arm, shoulder to wrist in a loving, reassuring gesture, then retained her hand in his.

"What's the matter?" Arthur said in a low voice.

"My mother thinks it's too dangerous for me to come with you," he murmured back.

"It probably is. You should stay –"

Merlin rounded on the human prince, giving him his fiercest glare. "Don't you start, too!"

" _Dyn-emris will go with Prince Arthur on his ship_ ," Balinor said, quietly but firmly. " _Hunith, listen to me. Our son fought my storm last night for hours. The ship was not sunk, and to my knowledge no lives were lost. When we found these two in the water, Dyn had formed a sizeable bubble of air around them – enough to allow them to breathe and live – ten fathoms from the surface. He held it for another hour as we returned here – not once did we need to surface_."

" _He – what_?" Hunith said, as startled as Merlin himself.

Vaguely he registered Arthur plucking at his sleeve, asking him something urgent-sounding, but he could only sit as if frozen, himself, staring at his father.

" _He commanded the element of air_ ," Balinor said, still in that mildly deceptive tone. When he turned to look at Merlin again, he felt his head shake his denial of its own accord.

" _But… we can't_ ," he stuttered. " _Only… earth and… water. Only earth and water – we can't._ "

Balinor gestured to Merlin. To all of Merlin. " _Clearly, you can. You did_."

"What – what?"

Merlin allowed himself to be distracted by Arthur's concern and lack of comprehension. "My father says I… demonstrated control over the element of air."

"Well done," Arthur said, still not understanding.

"He says I'm to come along."

Arthur grimaced, but nodded. "He thinks we can use that bit of magic too, then, somehow?"

Merlin nodded dumbly. That bit of magic. And he was a triple-affinity.

Well, he supposed if somehow – becoming human – had contributed to that, and if that in turn could contribute to their victory… even if the change was permanent, it would still have been worth it.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur was sure that his conversation with the sea-king had not been interpreted word for word, in either direction.

He didn't mind, knowing as he did that Merlin's loyalties lay with the king – his father! that made Merlin his equal, what a thought – and trusting as he did, that the younger man's motives included the care and protection of his men, in the final analysis.

They wouldn't wake to find themselves bound and laid out as a feast to lure the kraken, for instance.

He wasn't sure why the development of a new magical ability in conjunction with the human body had so overwhelmed Merlin, but he recognized the younger man's right to be overwhelmed, under the circumstances. Arthur didn't begrudge him his retreat into shocked-contemplative silence at the conclusion of his conversation with Balinor.

Arthur mainly focused on eating his fill of the strange but not unpleasant meal. He wished Gwaine was there to force into trying everything, because how was that different than what he'd done to Merlin his first day aboard the Medusa? Pickled eggs, indeed.

The other mer-people left the two of them alone, seated on the mostly-level slab beside one curved wall of the tower, though more adult males came and went, conferring with the king by the mound of rubble in the middle of the tower. Arthur might've asked Merlin what was being said, if it wasn't essentially asking the younger man to listen in uninvited on his father and king – and if it wasn't fairly clear to him, anyway. The mer-men were Balinor's fighters, commanders it might be, and he giving organizational orders.

It made Arthur huff in amusement – and Merlin glance at him questioningly – to realize that in all likelihood, he himself would defer to the king's authority when they reached the monster's lair for the confrontation. And take orders from a magical race of mythical creatures, as much as Uther would refuse and resent the idea.

He decided to leave that part of his report vague, when he got to it. If he got to it.

Twice Merlin was roused from introspection. First, almost immediately, when Will was sent to alert and guide the Medusa close enough for them to get back aboard easily.

Arthur guessed from their demeanor and the sound of their speech that Balinor had mentioned the need, Merlin had proposed Will as acting agent, and Will resisted what was not a direct order – which Balinor wouldn't give.

He was a canny ruler, Arthur thought. Not to command against his man's inclination, but to wait for the man to make the right choice on his own. Better for the accomplishment of the task at hand, better for the relationship of king to subject in the future.

Although, when Will sulkily submitted to the learning-by-rote of his human-language message – "Arthur lives. Come with me." – Arthur rather thought he did it for love of his prince, rather than obedience of his king.

The second time Merlin voluntarily emerged from his troubled reverie, was hours later, after Will's return and just before he and Arthur were to be taken back to the Medusa. The younger man startled aware when he'd lowered himself absently half into the water – then looked about the tower room, even ducking his head below water as if that would help him see better.

"What's the matter?" he said, but didn't think Merlin had heard him.

And he wasn't surprised to see the shy purple Freya surface once again at the foot of the slab where he'd woken, eaten, and rested. Nor that Merlin clawed his way over and around his orange-brown friend Will, to reach her. Merlin cupped her face in his hands and leaned his forehead against hers; they clucked and murmured to each other for a brief but – even to Arthur, who wouldn't understand what he couldn't overhear – poignant interview.

Saying farewell, he realized.

Arthur submerged himself; trusting to Will's left arm and a stranger's right, he breathed deeply – and at Merlin's nod – held it.

He tried to watch, as they swam out of the palace, away from Aetlantys.

They didn't have to swim that far down to leave the highest tower - it being the only one that rose high enough to break the surface – and the to emerge in open water and rise to the air again proved short, well within his lungs' limits.

But ever afterward he would carry the impression of a great city, anciently ruined, sad and majestic and silent, far below. The idea of movement among those old columns and walls and openings – mer-people or more ordinary marine life, he couldn't make out, because his guides were fast, as well as graceful.

Arthur found he was sorry he hadn't had a chance to see Merlin in his native element before he'd changed to a clumsy awkward new-human. He wondered if it bothered the younger man to be towed by both arms – his father and one of the other adult males – through the sea, having to remain at the surface for the last half-a-league to the ship. But he didn't have the breath to spare for conversation as they swam – constantly slapped in the face by another salty wave.

And when they reached the ship and his warriors and half the crew appeared at the portside rail to raise a deafening cheer, he was too self-conscious for such a question. And almost, he was too weak to haul himself up by the flimsy rope ladder.

"Welcome back aboard, sire," Lancelot said first, gripping his shoulder with a serious sort of joy as he crawled over the gunnel.

"My lord." Leon was next, with a relief that nearly overwhelmed his usual calm.

"You're glad you don't have to report my loss to my father?" he quipped, making light of the truth.

"That or follow you in death trying to take on this kraken ourselves," Leon answered.

Percival was ready with blankets, and that sight made him realize it _was_ chilly to stand in the sea-breeze with wet clothes. "Good to have you back, sire," the big warrior said, with a wide smile. "Gwaine tried to take bets on whether you'd –"

He hesitated, looking over Arthur's shoulder – as Merlin clambered breathlessly over the gunnel, assisted on both sides. By Leon who immediately began rolling up the rope ladder, and Gwaine who didn't hesitate to compress the younger man in a swift violent hug.

"Whether I'd what?" Arthur said to him.

"Whether you'd show back up with a mer-person's tail," Gwaine said cheerfully, having less inhibition or a wider view of appropriateness than Percival. He reached eagerly, and clasped tightly the forearm that Arthur allowed him.

"What color do you think he'd be?" Merlin said quietly, a small smile showing on bluing lips as he glanced at Arthur and shivered under the blanket Percival wrapped around him.

"Camelot red, of course," Gwaine said, leaning back over the rail. "Hey – you didn't bring any of your ladies?"

"Neither did you," Merlin returned.

"Gaius has hot whiskey and tea in the cabin," Lancelot told Arthur. "There's dry clothes –"

"Fresh water?" Arthur interrupted. He was thirsty, and he'd love a brisk scrub, too.

Leon caught the query. "I'll bring some," he promised.

A series of shrill calls and clicks caught all their attention over the side – and Arthur noticed that the contingent of mer-men, ten or a dozen, maybe, had spread out to surround the ship.

"They want to set out right away," Merlin translated, glancing from Arthur to Lancelot.

"Understood," Arthur said.

"What's our course, sire?" Lancelot asked, and Arthur looked to Merlin again.

"They'll take care of it," Merlin said. "There are storm-casters – ah, no, that's just what they're called – that will move the water and so the ship. It'll be faster?"

Arthur met Lancelot's uncertain look firmly. "That'll be better, too," he said. "Everyone fights. Use the time until we arrive to make sure the men are ready."

"Yes, my lord." Arthur turned to lead Merlin to the captain's cabin he shared with Lancelot, and was only slightly less surprised that his captain did the same, to address their guest. "Merlin, you have the thanks of a kingdom, for saving our prince – and mine personally, for saving a friend."

Merlin stared at him, managing only a breathless, "Yes – all right," as his own hand was taken and pressed by the captain. He nearly lost his blanket in the process; Gwaine adjusted it with a cheerful grin.

"Come on, mate, let's get you where you can sit down, before you fall down."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin had mixed feelings about returning to the humans' ship.

In his home – the tower room the only place for him, without gills – he'd managed to feel coordinated and controlled in his new body, mostly by keeping still. In spite of the sidelong glances given by everyone who was not his parents, Will and Freya.

But of course, a ship on the ocean was never still.

He had been surprised at the genuine warmth of the welcome he'd received from Arthur's closest friends – but he didn't belong here, either.

The captain's cabin was similar to the sick-bay where he'd woken, only yesterday, but twice as large. A heavy table dominated the room; two bunks roomier than those in the sick-bay, framed by cabinets, lined either wall. The cabin was not-so-subtly personalized with several bright and strange objects that were unfamiliar to his eyes, flat wall-hangings and intricate instruments of unknown use.

Arthur didn't waste any time, hanging his spare blanket over a cupboard door, leaving it swaying with the motion of the ship as he reached to yank his shirt off by the back of the neck-hole. Discarding that also, he dropped with a sigh onto the edge of the bunk and began pulling off his boots.

"Leon's bringing water," Arthur said. "So you can wash as well – you'll feel a whole lot better for being clean and dry, I guarantee."

Merlin was willing to be convinced, but his agreeable mumble was interrupted by a knock on the door. Arthur stepped to admit Leon, with two wooden buckets held by rope handles – and Percival, carrying a wide bowl of half-a-dozen green apples, a lidded pitcher and two heavy-based cups.

"Just there is fine, Leon, thanks," Arthur directed them, "On the table, Percival?"

Percival, obeying, gave his prince a half-bow, and Merlin a cheerful smile, before backing out of the cabin again. Leon placed his burden carefully, then moved around the table toward Merlin, instead of back the way he'd come. Merlin shuffled to give him room to pass, but he paused to put a hand lightly on his shoulder.

"We're a good long way from the abyssal, however fast your people can move us – take the chance to rest today, hm?" Leon glanced over his shoulder at the prince. "Both of you?"

"We will," Arthur answered, tossing a pair of white cloths over his shoulder from the open cupboard – they unfolded partially before they hit the table. "Oh, Leon, I should tell you – the bearded gray mer-man is their king, Balinor. If he signals he wants a word, someone should fetch – well, Merlin at least, if not both of us."

Merlin found he was shyly glad Arthur had not given his relation to the king away – he was enough of an oddity aboard this ship already, without being a royal oddity.

"And I'll address the men later," Arthur added.

"Yes, my lord." Leon gave Merlin an encouraging smile, and latched the door behind him when he went.

The human prince lifted the pitcher to pour each of the cups almost-full; handing one to Merlin, he drained his in a series of thirsty gulps. The water tasted flat to Merlin, but his mouth felt dry and sticky in spite of how wet he'd been, the lunch he'd eaten in Aetlantys' tower, and he drank all of his as well. Setting down his cup, Merlin stumbled as the ship lurched; Arthur paused in the same action and glanced up through the portholes above the bunks on either side of the cabin.

"Your father wasn't kidding," he remarked, lifting one bucket to the tabletop and dipping his cloth in. "It's like sailing in a high wind." He looked down at the water in the bucket and made a face. "Hm, lukewarm. I suppose Gaius is having trouble with the galley stove after the storm."

"You want it hotter?" Merlin ventured.

Arthur met his eyes – considered swiftly – then made a gesture of invitation. Merlin leaned over the wide heavy table; dipping his fingers, he focused on the water til he could feel the heat. It was surprisingly nice on skin.

"That's very handy," Arthur remarked, as he turned to do the same to the second bucket. "Yes – that's yours, and this cloth, and there's soap… Is that a trick you do often? Your father made ice pretty easily."

"No." Merlin dropped his own blanket and began to fumble out of his unfamiliar, borrowed clothes. "It's a lot easier when the water's isolated – like that bucket, or a pool, or even a wave. Otherwise it can be dangerous, raising or lowering the temperature of a larger part of the sea even a couple of degrees – to the fish, or the plant life…"

"Merlin." Arthur's voice sounded a bit strange, as if he were trying not to laugh. Merlin looked up to see that his face was turned away – an awkward thing, when he was trying to wash. "The thing about clothes is – humans consider it respectful _not_ to look at each other _without_ them."

"Oh – sorry." Merlin shifted around til he was facing away from Arthur, and seated himself on the floor of the cabin. Much safer for him not to try to wash and balance with the ship's movement at the same time. He was surprised to find that Arthur was right about the hot water and soap, and its effect on his skin-covered body, and remarked on it to the prince, as he struggled into a dry pair of trousers.

"Leave those buckets, we'll toss them out later… I don't suppose your people need to wash really, do they?" Arthur was dressing too, judging from the rustling sound of cloth; Merlin resisted the impulse to check if Gwaine was right, that Arthur did his one leg at a time, too. "Can you tell the temperature difference much, through the scales?"

"Skin is more sensitive, but yeah," he answered.

As Arthur moved to drape their other wet garments around the room, Merlin tucked his chin to tighten the laces at the throat of his dry shirt. Unadorned white, like Arthur's and everyone else's; he had a brief moment of regret for the lost individualism of color among his people.

"We have a place we go, sometimes," he ventured, not sure of holding the human prince's interest. "Far to the northwest, where the earth is open and glows hot. The water is naturally warm, and the surface steams. I've been three times, myself."

"That sounds – lovely." Arthur groaned; Merlin glanced up at him as he struggled back to his own feet against the ship's rocking motion. The human prince sat on his bunk and slowly moved one leg, then the other, sank back bit by bit til he was prone. "Hells, I'm sore – that hot soak sounds perfect, right now. You'll have to take me, sometime."

Merlin clung to the second bunk and swayed, and in the silence savored the echo of the words. So simple, and yet so profound.

Arthur anticipated their survival – that gave him hope. Arthur anticipated further interaction; that meant Merlin wasn't simply a means to an end, for the sun-haired prince, if he could express a desire for his company when this was all over, so casually.

"Are you okay?"

He looked to see that Arthur had rolled to one side, and was watching him, and let his new friend see that moment of happiness and hope, in his smile. "Mm hm."

"Can I ask you a question?" Arthur watched Merlin clamber into his own bunk, knocking elbows and knees – damn human knees – til he could safely lie down and stretch out. "Why does your control of air-magic come as such a shock?"

Merlin lay still and closed his eyes, feeling the drag of airy gravity rather than the weightless drift of water, the scratch of cloth on skin instead of the subtle slip of liquid over scales. "We can't," he said. "Ever since Trytn's time, it's been earth, or water. Or both, sometimes. But not air… or fire."

"Can you do both? Earth and water?"

After a moment, Merlin nodded, his hair rumpling against the flat pad behind his head. "That's usually a – mark of royalty."

Arthur made a noise of thoughtful consideration. "Are you your father's only son?"

Merlin hummed affirmation. "You?"

"Yes."

For a moment, he held his breath. Wondering if he dared. "Always wanted a brother, though…"

Arthur huffed in amusement. "Me, too."

A moment passed. Neither of them asked; Merlin wondered – wondered if he dared hope – that Arthur was thinking the same thing. Even if they never said it.

And the human prince's change of subject did not cut short the question of brotherhood; instead it simply completed it. "You think it's because you're human, then, that you've added the command over air?"

Merlin smiled, but it felt twisted and bitter on his face. "As if I needed one more thing to set me apart from the rest of my people," he said, deliberately calm.

Arthur made an ironic noise. "You'd rather be ordinary?"

Merlin had to swallow twice to be able to answer evenly. "Sometimes."

The human prince sighed, shuffled himself about in his bunk. "It's who we were born to be," he told Merlin, with a wry note in his voice. "Princes and the heirs of kingdoms. Meant to do great things, impossible things… even legendary things, it may be. Sometimes, the safety and comfort of _ordinary_ has to be sacrificed by men like you and me – so that it can be lived by our people. I've found… there's value in finding the few friends who will treat you the same, no matter what changes you go through, in life."

Yes. He could admit that was true. A lot to think about, anyway.

"Well. Your ancestors were human, and your Trytn's father Poseidon, you said, handled all four elements, right? It could be argued that it's perfectly normal for a prince of your people to be able to transform, or develop different elemental abilities."

Merlin let his head drop sideways on the pillow, and watched the prince sort his limbs around him a bit more before finally stilling – into slumber, he guessed. And couldn't help a smile.

Arthur had adapted rather easily to all this strangeness, himself.

Merlin could do worse than imitate him, he supposed. So he closed his eyes and did.

 **A/N: Honestly, I'd run out of previously-inspired scenes at the beginning of this chapter, with Arthur & Balinor's conversation. I knew I wanted a bit of a break before my end-action started though, so – when in doubt, Merlin&Arthur! And, due to an entirely unrelated thought that sparked my 'what-if' response, I now have a pretty clear idea of the rest of the story, and pretty good motivation to write it. Though this will be a shorter story, comparatively; I anticipate approximately 10 chapters at this point…**


	7. The Rise of the Kraken

**A/N: 'Kay, I guess I should maybe put a warning on this one, for… kraken carnage?**

Kirsten: Glad you liked Arthur in the mer-people's world! That's always an aspect of Merlin's life, I think, that does Arthur good to see (because he definitely doesn't get enough of it at home) – the demonstrated affection and support. And Balinor, I think, would be a very _smart_ king… which Arthur would appreciate, rather than not. And poor Merlin. He really _isn't_ like anyone else, in any 'verse… but a bit of encouraging!Arthur goes not amiss on those occasions when his unique qualities are more depressing than otherwise. And yes! on to the kraken!…

 **Chapter 7: The Rise of the Kraken**

All day and through the night.

Balinor's horn-storm had pulled them far from their destination, and his storm-casters returned them, almost to their previous position. It was an amazing demonstration of endurance, one that – if they had been an allied army on a forced-march – even Uther would have been compelled to commend. They'd definitely earned their rest.

Now the Medusa swung gently at anchor in the pre-dawn light, at a distance that would not rouse the kraken. They hoped. Balinor had promised a constant watch of at least one warrior, underwater, and a warning if the battle was precipitated early.

And the mer-men rested. So Arthur assumed because Merlin had assured him; though they seemed to have disappeared, and a handful of the sailors he faced on-deck exchanged skeptical looks, he didn't figure they would abandon their prince any more than his men would abandon him.

"This has been…" He paused to make sure he held the attention of the sailors, as well as his three warriors on his left, Merlin silently balancing on his right, Lancelot stationed at the helm behind and above him on the quarterdeck. "An unusual, and eventful voyage. We've braved dangers, seen wonders… made friends. Now we've reached our destination – and today we'll face our enemy. Make no mistake – a deadly enemy and a legend in itself. And at the same time, no more than any mindless beast we've ever hunted. It can be destroyed – and we will destroy it."

Arthur let the silence gather, meeting every man's eyes til their uncertainty and trepidation had firmed to resolve.

"The three long-boats will venture half a league to the east. Each of you has been assigned a commander – Leon, Gwaine, and Percival. The mer-men will bring the creature from the deep to the surface. They will keep it here and slow it down while we fight, and prevent its retreat."

He turned to Merlin, who spoke clearly and calmly – though he was pale and young and Arthur had gathered, for all intents and purposes, this was his first _battle_.

"Our plan is to form a great –" he hesitated briefly and glanced at Arthur as if the word he wanted had momentarily eluded him in the address of dozens of human strangers – "slab, of ice, underneath it – to both slow its responses, and keep it from submerging. Once the ice is formed, it will melt slowly, not suddenly disappear. It will take some considerable strength from our warriors, but we will do our utmost to aid your efforts also."

"Your concern," Arthur went on, saying what his three commanders already knew, "is to separate the creature from its arms. The mer-men will work with you, capturing and immobilizing each tentacle as they can. It is not an absolute power, you must work quickly, and with trust.

"The Medusa will be opposite, with the bare minimum of crew, under the command of myself and Lancelot, your captain, and the protection of Merlin Emrys. Our concern will be the head, wounding it as we can using the black powder, but ultimately keeping its attention off you as you work to fatally cripple it.

"Nowhere do I expect you to withstand it directly. Retreat and let others attack from behind – and resume your assault when its focus diverts. Right?" Again he looked around, seeing determined nods. He expected the warriors to carry the responsibility of fighting, but the sailors needed to be just as courageous, handling the boats, striking when there was opportunity. " _For the love of Camelot_."

Arthur intended to dismiss them with their battle-cry, to raise the anchor and launch the boats to row to their positions; he'd forgotten for the moment that not all their company fought for Camelot.

"For the love of our families." Merlin spoke into the silent inhalation that immediately followed Arthur's words, with all the authority and encouragement of a prince. Arthur watched him meet the men's eyes, also, one by one. "For our friends. And the freedom of the sea."

"Hear, hear," Gwaine said strongly, grinning. Leon met Arthur's eyes with a slightly-raised eyebrow and a smile of approval for the younger man; Percival looked unsurprised.

"Man the boats," Arthur commanded.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin stood at the rail, braced against the wave-swell, eyes closed against the brightness of the sun, halfway to its zenith overhead. So that it would not blind anyone in surrounding the kraken when the creature rose, though the clouds today helped to obscure its direct rays. Some high and thinly wind-wisped, others low and scattered dark-bellied.

"What does it feel like?" Gaius questioned curiously, leaning on the rail to one side of his position. Taking a brief respite above-deck, before he sought shelter and prepared to receive wounded, below.

"I don't know." Merlin considered, wanting a better answer for the old man who had taken such gentle care of him – and who was one of the few who didn't look at him any differently, now. "It's like… knowing someone's standing behind you, without seeing or hearing or feeling anything specific."

"Another sense?" Gaius suggested.

"An instinct," Arthur said, an arms'-length to Merlin's opposite side.

"This would be easier, if I was in the water," he said aloud. "The water carries messages…" He trailed off, realizing it was the same with the air, except he was unfamiliar with the medium. Faint and strange, the message came, along skin and raised hairs, rather than flickers of impulsive truth along nerves and scales.

Arthur snorted, and Gaius said, "You may find this hard to believe, Merlin, but humans are susceptible to illness after long submersion in cool water – and after nearly drowning."

"The last thing I need is you catching cold right before this battle," Arthur added, with fondly mild sarcasm.

Merlin focused on the faint reverberations his magic detected. Possessing an earth-affinity himself, he could tell – usually – what others were doing with that element, magically.

"It's working," he said suddenly. "The bedrock is shifting – the creature is emerging."

Arthur repeated the message in a shout to Lancelot, who hollered for the lookout in the crows'-nest to signal the boats. "Gaius, you should probably get below."

"Of course, sire." The old man put a sympathetic hand on Merlin's shoulder, before he moved past him, heading for the forward hatch.

Merlin opened his eyes and squinted across the sea, the placid playground of innocuous waves. He gave a shiver that he thought was pure nerves, hoping that any inexperience or confusion or hesitation on his part didn't cost lives. Or, heaven forbid, the victory.

"Waiting is the worst," Arthur told him, leaning nonchalantly sideways on the rail to watch the sailors at work behind Merlin, arms crossed over his chest. "Once it starts, there won't be time to worry. Then you've got to trust your training for your reactions."

Merlin nodded tightly, but couldn't make his fingers loosen from their white-knuckled grip on the gunnel. Far across the choppy water, the three boats were visible, tiny and lonely in the vast ocean. Rays of sunlight visibly pierced the sporadic cloud-cover; the horizon was draped with the low blue-purple veil that meant rain was falling leagues distant.

The kraken was rising, he could sense that, tremors through the water now as well as the earth of the cleaved sea-floor. Literal ripples from the kraken's movement, magical ripples that made him shiver again, and recognize his earlier intuitive reaction.

They would keep their distance, he told himself. His father, and the well-trained warriors. They would draw no attention as the creature rose past them, they would draw together beneath it to begin to form the ice, stabilize and balance the slab until it lifted and held the kraken right out of the water.

"They'll do their job," Arthur murmured next to him. "You just focus on yours."

His task. Right. This ship.

He and Lancelot were responsible for keeping the ship intact. By any means, retreat or magic.

The assumption was, the ship would prove the initial attraction, as all other ships had. Their need to reacquire the kraken's focus would come when the long-boats attacked with hatchets and harpoons, but in the first moments, it was vital both that the positioning of the ice-slab was accurate, and that the ship remained free of the monster's coils.

Behind him, he heard the sailors grunt and thump and curse. Barrels of a strange – and flammable, he'd been told – black powder, had been moved to the deck and lashed in place. Now any spare container of any size or material was being filled and sealed with a wick-like string. He understood the wicks would be lit like candles, and the container – small, large, awkward, unwieldy, whatever – would be hurled at the kraken to explode violently.

 _Explode_ was a human word he didn't fully understand. But he trusted Arthur's assumption that it would draw the monster's attention while the long-boats and mer-men worked to chop tentacles.

The human prince strode away to inspect the arsenal of projectiles. Merlin reached absently to feel the heat emanating from a fire-pot that had been fastened just below the rail for convenience's sake. He nervously watched the surface of water give no sign of what was happening below… until a round patch of water smoothed and spread unnaturally, rising with the immense body that rose beneath it.

"Arthur it's here!" he said aloud, his voice sounding strange in his ears, pinched with a mix of excitement and fear.

Lancelot shouted something about the sails. Arthur appeared, a water pitcher in one hand – packed with powder, sealed with waxed cloth and twine, trailing the wick down his forearm; he kept careful distance from the open flame in the fire-pot. There was a hatchet balanced in his other.

That spot spread – and spread – and _hells_. It encircled the ship.

Merlin gritted his teeth and gathered the water like a shield between the creature and the hull – not to withstand direct attack, that was probably impossible, but to prevent it from finding a grip at all.

The ship bumped, tipped, lifted, as the monster made its first languid attempt – he was aware of Arthur bracing himself, Lancelot's voice commanding the crew. He leaned to look down – twenty fathoms, maybe thirty.

Maybe he saw the blue-white glimmer of ice as promised, but -

It was _enormous_.

And that was only the head.

Far to the sides of the ship, humps like small whales or dolphins rose, breaching, sliding back down – other arms. He was distracted for an instant by the corpulent pink-white of the suckers lining the curling tentacles _so close_ and seeking their wood and flesh, suckers the size of his palm and probably barbed.

Up rose the ship, like riding the crest of a storm-wave. Merlin's water-shield held inoffensive and supple.

They began to slide down, away from the kraken, back to open sea. Merlin lurched and clung to the gunnel, feeling Arthur's hand fisted in his shirt for extra support, and he was thankful for the reassurance of that contact.

The tilt of the ship hid the creature from view – but the sailors shouted triumph and he could not feel the kraken's touch directly on the hull. As they rushed down to water-level, Merlin released the shield and used the water to push their pace as well as the hull itself, skimming beyond range of immediate danger.

And when the deck leveled, Arthur was upright and exultant before Merlin could persuade his legs that they held the strength to do the same. "Ha! It's working!"

Merlin did not feel the same optimism, to finally see the kraken in open air. It was terrifying – he didn't know what to do – he felt his mouth gaping and his human knees threatening to buckle once again.

The rounded bulging head – glistening green-gray and swaying in growing perturbation – rose higher into the air. The arms curled and flailed shallowly – the ship forgotten for the moment in the curiosity and novelty of the ice flow, which extended a stone's throw beyond the mass of the creature's body. Water poured over the rounded edges of solid green-white marine ice - he wondered how thick it was –

The kraken shifted, and he saw eyes as wide around as the ship's wheel in Lancelot's hands – flat and lidless, near the top of the head, with horizontal-slash pupils – a strange pinched beak-mouth. One great arm rose in the air, reaching for them – Merlin called a swell to push them further away, as Arthur hefted the hatchet in his right hand, anticipating.

Then it jerked, and the tentacles writhed faster, betrayed agitation – the others he could see did the same – gripping the ice or searching for prey. It began to turn.

"The long-boats are attacking!" Arthur called out, at the moment the same realization occurred to Merlin. "Come on, you lot – _throw_!"

It was too far.

Merlin saw that immediately, before the first vessel was lobbed into the air toward the creature – lit wick burning to black powder and – he flinched at the _crack_! and flare, but the creature seemed to take no notice.

"We have to get closer," Arthur determined grimly.

Merlin's resistance to that idea was immediate and visceral, and he feared his fear. "No. Try… try again."

If he could move the ship on the water-currents, wasn't it possible that he might move these smaller objects on the currents of the air?

Arthur cocked a skeptical eyebrow, but Merlin nodded, and he dipped the water pitcher in his hand to the firepot. The wick sparked; he drew back, and hurled with all his strength.

Merlin tried the water-magic he knew, on the air. It felt slippery and thin – but he could use it to push against the pitcher, lift and carry it, spinning and bobbing, til it exploded near the joining of one of the arms to the head.

It flinched. They were too far to see if any damage had been done, but –

"Sire!" hollered the look-out. "The long-boat teams are effective - I can see two of the arms on the far side, not moving!"

"Cut or trapped?" Arthur called back up.

"Here one comes!" another voice screamed from the bow.

They all tensed – but the tentacle froze in place, the last quarter-length of it curling and twisting midair in expressed fury. Merlin leaned over the gunnel and glimpsed his father, far to his left. Balinor protecting one flank, and Will should be on the other.

"Throw again!" Arthur shouted the command, and his voice sounded a mix of joyful defiance and stubborn triumph. "Merlin, at your pleasure, my friend!"

He was woefully inexperienced with air-magic, and more than one vessel slipped to drop harmlessly into the water. More than one fell short on the ice and skittered away to impact against the side of an arm – he hoped those would not damage the ice slab – but a fair few collided with the gelid head-mass, and twice more the eyes and beak-mouth were visible as it twisted to face attacks on all sides.

As they fought so – back and forth, throw and magic - once he saw one of the humans captured. Almost to the other side of the kraken, the man rose wrapped in a tentacle, kicking and thrashing in a vain attempt to avoid being pulled back to the head. The appendage jerked to a sudden stop though Merlin could not tell why – then suddenly dropped away, out of sight and free but in an unknown condition.

Once he saw the tip of another arm, closer and to the left, dip down and fish out one of the mer-warriors – who flipped and stabbed with his knife and screamed wordlessly – and two others converged upon the arm closer to the base, hacking at the limb until it released. The mer-man twisted to dive as he dropped – and slammed into the edge of the ice-slab before splashing into the water. Out of sight.

" _M_!" Will shouted, and Merlin leaned out to see his friend breaking surface just off the starboard stern. " _Three off! The ice is holding, the long-boats have lost no one_!"

" _Thanks_!" Merlin called back. " _You be careful_!"

Will grinned insouciantly before ducking back down. " _You too_!"

"Can you lift this one?" Arthur said, and he turned to see a small wine-keg in the human prince's hands, the handle of the hatchet pushed temporarily through his belt. "The smaller ones are all but gone – this'll make it mad probably…"

Someone shouted jokingly, "Madder than it already is?"

"But it'll do some damage, too, if we can get it close," Arthur finished, without acknowledging the interruption.

"I think so," Merlin answered Arthur's question. "I've just about got the hang of it."

"Ready, then?" Arthur lowered the wick to the candle-flame, and heaved the keg into the air over the gunnel.

Merlin called the wind, felt the air like a nearly-solid brush, plastering clothes to his limbs, tossing hair in his eyes, even pushing him tighter against the rail. The keg soared in a rising arc –

Arthur muttered, "Not yet not yet closer a bit closer…"

The metal-bound wooden cask bounced once on the ice – like a flat stone skipping the water's surface – and ricocheted into the kraken's head-body.

When it exploded, chunks of flesh visibly separated from its mass. The men raised a cheer – but the monster _shrieked_ in rage and agony.

Merlin could not help a whine, as he cowered down by the rail, covering his ears. It was a dumb creature, acting on instinct, it didn't understand it couldn't be reasoned with _can't we just… no. Can't we just_ – no.

Distant and slow, he heard Arthur. "Come on, another one!"

And Lancelot. "Sire, it's – coming – _for – us_!"

Merlin twisted in his crouch – and pushed upright in alarm. Both wheel-wide eyes fully visibly, the kraken noticeably strained toward the ship. The edge of the ice-slab nearest them disappeared, tipped down below the waves.

Missing arms on the other side meant they had nothing to hold it with, over there, and of course after so long and so much magic the mer-men would be weakening, control slipping… To one side of the creature's head, in the distant open water, he saw one of the long-boats slide into view, circling to begin a new flank attack.

But the kraken knew itself captured – cornered – crippled. It was desperate, probably angry… and now, it was coming for _them_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Sire-it's-coming-for-us!" Lancelot yelled, and Arthur's feeling of exultant almost-triumph fled so rapidly it left him gasping and cold and momentarily lost.

It was tipping the ice in its haste and fury. How badly was it crippled? If it got into the water, would it retreat and bide its time before it could attack again, some innocent merchant months and months from now? Or would it drag them down immediately with it?

Tentacles curled toward them – but the head-body made no appreciable progress. Too slow from the cold underneath, or unable without all its appendages to do more than lurch and lean, held out of the water.

And – he estimated length and distance – none of the arms would be able to _encircle_ the ship, just –

"Hatchets!" Arthur bellowed, yanking his own from his belt in the hollow of his hip.

The tentacles bumped the hull, scratched and slithered and writhed into view – three of them, reaching over the gunnel. From the corner of his eye he saw Lancelot abandon the helm to twirl an every-ounce-of-strength slash at the arm questing up the quarterdeck; Merlin turned, trying to hold it for the captain with the _air_ , Arthur thought. He heard the chirps and squeals of the mer-people's language strident and angry, down in the water and to his left but close, and figured to leave that arm to them.

And the middle third one. Maybe not as thick as a tabletop was round, but definitely sized like a tree-trunk. Up and over the rail, seeking wildly, blindly.

He ducked the grotesque appendage and leaped for the rail, intending to chop it off as short as he could, heedless of any damage he might cause to the rail.

The flesh split and oozed a thick blue-gray liquid Arthur assumed was its equivalent of blood. The arm was rubbery and resistant, but the hatchet was sharp and heavy. He raised his weapon, rising on his toes, and hacked at the limb as hard as he'd ever brought his sword down on an enemy shield.

Arthur drew back again – and found his focus drawn suddenly the hundred paces, if one were to pace at sea, to the kraken's alien face.

And it was looking at _him_.

He slashed – but the hatchet never found its mark, either to deepen an existing attempt at severing or at least cut a new wound to weaken it. Something struck his wrist and the long handle of the weapon so suddenly and violently it flew backward out of his hand.

Arthur spun with the motion, seeing the last six or eight feet of tentacle flail out of his range of vision.

As the axe spun past Merlin.

Who looked like he'd just that moment twisted to watch its flight, and had lost his balance – knees bending – body thumping down to land on his back on the deck.

 _Just lost balance_ , Arthur told himself, _just breath knocked out_ …

Except for the gash opened in the side of Merlin's neck. Arthur remembered his momentary instinctive alarm, seeing the young mer-man's gill-slits in his first moments on the ship – but those had sealed when he became human.

He scrambled across the yards of wet planking between them – the ship tilted as at least one of the tentacles found a hold and _pulled_ – to see that the side of Merlin's neck had been cut wide open.

Not his jugular vein. Not his windpipe. But still…

Merlin's eyes, wide and scared, found his as the younger man gasped and choked with the shock of the wound. Blood slipped over fingers fumbling to gauge severity, maybe, or just in reaction, sliding away over the slanting deck-boards. He squirmed and his bare heels rubbed and thudded in involuntarily movement as Arthur tried to reassure, to stem the flow of blood, to still his panic.

"Merlin, hold still – you're not dying, do you understand me? You're bleeding but you're not dying – let me try to stop the –"

The blue of Merlin's eyes intensified, focused over Arthur's shoulder. His free hand scrabbled to grip Arthur's sleeve - as Arthur was seized from behind and dragged off Merlin and away.

His first thought was, Lancelot or a couple of the sailors, moving him so that –

He struggled – and his fingers met wet rubbery sea-flesh. Hundreds of tiny needles pricked him in a spiral around his ribs, and _stuck_. He cried out, and his boots left the deck, and Merlin half-sat, reaching a blood-smeared hand for him.

His right shin knocked the gunnel hard as the capturing tentacle forced simultaneous surrender and retreat, and his entire body seized with the sharp immediate pain. Fighting was useless, though his arms were free – he flew twenty paces into the air.

Now over water – now over ice.

Arthur yelped as the tentacle jerked to a halt in midair.

Blur of gray – Balinor's bearded face, fierce with battle-rage – the sea-king's upper body surged from the water bowed backward. His arm snapped forward and one of their harpoons – salvaged at some point during the fight evidently – shot through the air to pierce the tentacle holding Arthur.

The limb thrashed in reaction, and Arthur grabbed the harpoon reflexively for balance as the kraken dashed him down.

He cringed – braced – plunged into the sea. Instinctively holding his breath, he pulled and twisted the harpoon wildly, as the barbed suckers of the arm pulled and twisted at him and he thought, _Blood in the water. Not a good thing_.

The water was white all around them with the fury of the fight. His lungs burned – he might have been inches from the surface or several fathoms by now, he couldn't tell. He couldn't see.

The shaft of the harpoon loosened in his grip, slid several inches freer – all at once the harpoon was free – and so was he.

Something large and solid and cold bumped his right shoulder – he twisted, panicked, and it pushed against his entire right side. He broke surface involuntarily and gasping for breath.

Floating on a small separate piece of ice.

He blinked and saw Balinor, head and shoulders above the waves – giving him a keenly appraising glance. He lifted his head, moved his legs to balance an upright position, and hefted the harpoon. The sea-king gave him a brief decisive nod – _You'll be all right_ – then flipped and dove, heading toward the remaining arms to the near northwest.

Arthur's ice-boat bumped and grated on the larger flow, and he crawled without thinking to the greater mass, for safety and stability. His leg throbbed; though he didn't think it was broken, it was hard to stand, and he used the harpoon momentarily as a crutch to get him to his feet.

The arm he'd fought flopped blue blood and gore in the water, on the narrow rim of ice around the body-head.

He turned, arm-hand-fingers adjusting grip on the harpoon to position it suitable for spear-throwing. He knew nothing about the probable anatomy of such a monster, but between the eyes was always a good aim in his experience.

Arthur didn't hesitate, hurling the weapon with all his strength.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin didn't understand what had happened, at first. He felt a glancing sting on his neck – and then his balance was lost on the heaving deck – and then his breath was lost when he landed on his back.

His neck hurt more with every second, every heartbeat.

His fingertips told him a confusing story of a gill-slit – _I should be able to breathe, then_ – where liquid trickled out, rather than flowing in and through…

His body reacted apart from his confusion, as if he could physically scramble back from the pain and the – he checked his fingers – blood _._

Wait _, blood?_ He felt Arthur's hands and heard Arthur's voice and wanted to whimper like a child, _Help me, save me_ – but the prince's words were calm and rational.

"You're not dying, do you understand me? You're bleeding but you're not dying."

Okay. Not dying – he believed and trusted Arthur – meant he could haul himself upright and keep on…

Movement caught his gaze and attention. Just over Arthur's shoulder and _coming for him_! a dripping, squirming tentacle.

There was no time for warning. There was no time for magic.

The tentacle snaked around Arthur's ribs and yanked him backward. Irritation, Merlin saw in Arthur's eyes, before the prince glanced down, and realization replaced it. Merlin reached for him – he flew backwards, struggling, crashing very nearly right through the gunnel.

Merlin fell back, gasping, blinking spots from his vision as blue sky and white cloud rocked above him, slashed with the dark lines of mast and boom and shroud. His hand – his neck – slippery with liquid agony. He clutched tighter, and it seemed to help.

He rolled to his side, getting his elbow under him. Lancelot and the sailors were a faint thought. He had to get… up on his knees… up on his – he tumbled back down, letting out a cry of pain.

Alright, then, he'd have to crawl the way Gwaine said human young learned to move about on their own. He made it to the gunnel and dragged his feet beneath him, straightened his knees – to see Arthur doing the same, a stone's throw from him and down on the edge of the ice.

And the prince had a harpoon. Puzzling, but good.

But. Merlin could see that his white shirt was shredded and blood-stained from the tentacle's inimical embrace. He could see that Arthur's balance was affected by his injuries, his situation precarious, in spite of the temporary release from the kraken's arm, flopping empty and gory near his feet.

It made him angry. It made him want to stop defending and holding, and instead attack, with Arthur.

Heat rose behind his eyes like staring into the sun just at the horizon too long. Heat rose in the center of his chest – he looked past Arthur arching his whole body backwards in anticipation of his cast, to the flat unfeeling eyes of the kraken. Maybe doomed – whether it knew it or not - but determined to cause as much death and destruction as it could, in dying.

If he were his father, he could call a storm, a storm of focused violence with lightning like the prince's black powder – he could – he could -

Arthur heaved the harpoon, his aim true.

Something like desperation, like temper, fired from Merlin's heart as well.

The soaring weapon burst abruptly into flame, flickering blue like lightning, red-yellow-white like the explosions.

But they'd told him metal _couldn't_ burn.

Comprehension wasn't necessary. Merlin felt his very will fly with Arthur's cast – urging it on, finding the mark of greatest vulnerability.

 _End this. Put the creature out of its misery. Prevent any further harm to human or mer-man._

The flesh of the kraken's head flash-melted when the harpoon struck. The monster reeled, and Merlin could not see so much as the butt of the shaft, so deeply buried was it, but smoke flickered from and looped around the great wound. Tentacles writhed; some were only stumps now.

Then the great central mass of the monster lurched, collapsed, shuddered. It squirmed to the right… at least two of the tentacles sprawled to stillness.

Merlin felt it was dying. The battle was over; this was the end. He could hear the sailors' cheers, wild and sharp with tension not yet fully released; he felt nothing but grim relief.

There was still one tentacle, though, between the ship and the creature, too close to Arthur for Merlin's liking.

"Arthur!" he rasped out, and the prince turned immediately. Merlin – one hand still sticky-tight to the side of his neck, made a quick motion with his other hand, before gripping the rail for balance again.

The human prince seemed to agree. He stepped back as the creature died slowly, and the tentacle curled, now retracting, now striking out aimlessly. A few of the sailors on the bow of the ship were calling to Arthur also – they had the rope ladder unfurled down the hull for him.

 _Sire. My lord. Return to safety_. _Come back_.

Arthur dove shallowly into the water, swam a few awkward strokes, and reached the ship's side safely. Merlin watched him climb up – tired and sore, to judge by Arthur's movements, but he could see no specific weakness betraying a more serious hurt.

The sailors tipped him over the gunnel; he waded through their congratulatory shoulder- and back-slaps and leaned on the starboard-side ladder rails to slide rather than climb down.

"You all right?" he called to Merlin.

Merlin didn't want to nod, or speak. He only gave a little smile of acknowledgement.

"Was that you? Fire-magic?"

"I really…can't think about that, right now," he croaked, and Arthur nodded, his smile showing understanding and weary triumph.

"Arthur!" Lancelot called, relief in his voice, and Merlin turned toward the captain on the quarterdeck as Arthur answered.

"I'm okay."

"I can see the three long-boats, still afloat, beginning to row back, but not how many –"

"Merlin!" Arthur called from behind him, suddenly, urgently.

Just as he was turning – it felt like, someone had given Merlin a hearty slap on the back. But Arthur's voice did not sound close enough for him to touch Merlin, and he'd be surprised if the prince was so rough with him and – Merlin stumbled.

Strength and balance failed him at once, one hand still held to his bleeding neck. The gunnel was too low to catch him, rather aided in tripping him over.

He flailed, one-armed – but still fell.

Merlin felt no fear at the sudden close approach of the water, and the brief initial slap of the surface was a fond teasing welcome.

 _Sorry about that – still so clumsy – don't worry about -_

The cool of water sliding past him as he sank felt like his mother's embrace, eased the pain in his neck. The deep and endless blue was soothing, and he relaxed into it, satisfied with the victory, and that his part in it was over.

Going home.


	8. Homeward Bound

**Chapter 8: Homeward Bound**

Arthur watched it happen with the horrified disbelief, the helpless disconnect of a nightmare.

The last mindless twitch of a tentacle-end where the death of the heart and brain hadn't quite reached. Arthur couldn't imagine that it had been _intentional_ , but the _coincidence_ was devastating.

Merlin knocked off-balance, stumbling into the rail, and tipping right over.

Arthur leaped for the gunnel where he'd disappeared, hearing the thudding of footfalls as sailors followed. "Merlin!"

The younger man remained submerged as the white water of his splash subsided. Arthur glimpsed white, half a fathom down – skin or shirt – then nothing. He lifted his head and saw only the three long-boats, toiling over the waves though still too far away to assist, no savior mer-men in the immediate area.

His muscles bunched, fully intending to hurl him over the side in rescue.

"Hold him!" Lancelot shouted the order.

For the second time, Arthur was roughly grabbed, restrained – held back, pulled back, this time by the human hands and arms of the sailors.

"Get off!" he shouted. "Let me go! That's an order!" He heard his tattered shirt rip in several more places, and the marks on his body left by the sucker-barbs burned as they were rubbed.

The captain bellowed again, " _Hold him_! Arthur, no!"

Arthur didn't stop fighting to launch himself over the rail. Remembering the storm and his own fear and despair to find himself underwater with no hope of rescue – and Merlin's own shy reaction at being caught out _his_ savior.

Lancelot blocked him, his breathing quickened from his rush down the ladder and across the deck. "Sire, you can't," he said, his tone still managing to be quietly and respectfully commanding. "Forgive me, but I can't let you."

Arthur knew it for truth. Lancelot had to protect his crown prince even against the prince's wishes; he couldn't dive himself, as captain, or order his men to risk themselves, either. But no one else volunteered to make the plunge.

He struggled anyway. Merlin couldn't _breathe_. Hadn't reappeared.

"Dyn-emris!"

For a moment Arthur stilled, meeting Lancelot's eyes in surprise at the unfamiliar voice, deep and commanding. Then as a group – the sailors still uncomprehending, physically preventing his dive into the water – they lurched to the rail. Balinor's head and shoulders rose above the waves, hair and beard slicked down with the water, eyes burning with intensity.

And he spoke in the human language; Arthur felt astonishment and relief at once. "Prince - where is my son?"

Arthur wrestled one arm free, and pointed. Down, into the sea. "He was knocked over, just now, one of the tentacles…"

Without waiting to hear more, Balinor dove down, with a powerful flip of his gray-scaled tail, and in an instant had passed beyond perception as well.

"He said his son?" Lancelot questioned in a low voice, beside Arthur. He motioned a signal to his crew-members, who released Arthur warily – a feeling unwarranted; he wasn't going anywhere. He couldn't help Merlin as much as Balinor could. "That was the king, wasn't it?"

Arthur nodded dumbly, watching just below – then extending the range of his search. No sign of them, of any of the mer-people. _Come on, come on come on_.

"Check the port-side," he commanded in a hoarse voice, and Lancelot jerked his head to support the order.

"That makes him a prince of their people?" Lancelot continued, incredulous.

Arthur nodded, his throat tight. It had been too long, too long for anyone to hold their breath. His own felt a hot betrayal in his lungs – or maybe that was just the state of his chest and sides and back. He added, "The heir."

Lancelot breathed an oath and turned to add his search to Arthur, finally understanding the _significance_ of Merlin's loss.

"Nothing this side, sire."

His heart beat, and his lungs exchanged air, and their waiting stretched on, as long and unbroken as the surface of the ocean itself.

The skin of the kraken, finally motionless, dulled from translucent gray-green to a dull dry-slate color, shifting only minutely and as a whole with the waves' action on the ice-slab.

The boats drew near, and for a while there was distraction in the shout and hurry of lifting the wounded to the deck, carrying them below to the berth-deck – too many to be accommodated in sick-bay – lifting then the boats on-deck also.

Gwaine was first, devilish exultation only slightly wearied. "On land or on sea, sire – as always, it's a pleasure to fight for you."

Arthur acknowledged him with a brief exchanged clasp of their wrists. "Gwaine."

"You look like hell, are you all right?" Gwaine glanced over the deck as Arthur was watching out to sea. "Where's Merlin?"  
"He was knocked over."

"What?" Gwaine rushed to the gunnel so swiftly that Arthur reactively put out a hand to stop him going over, though surely the roguish warrior wouldn't do anything so obviously foolish. His chances of helping Merlin now were next to nothing. "What happened?"

Arthur retracted his hand to rub his burning eyes – but briefly, they did not want to remain shut. "Gwaine – I only want to tell this once."

So they waited.

Percival arrived, climbed up and joined them.

"One got you too, sire?" the big warrior said, gesturing at Arthur's chest. Arthur noticed that Percival bore similar marks around one forearm – his sleeves rolled over his elbow as always – widely circular, bruised and raw.

"What did you do, then?" Gwaine said with distant and hard humor. "Tear it's arm off?"

Percival nodded with a tired version of his little-boy smile. "I tried." After a moment of silence, he ventured, not understanding their tense vigil, "They're taking Leon's on-board on the other side – no one was lost, though he's got a man still unconscious after being underwater too long…" He paused as Gwaine growled an obscenity. "What is it?"

"Merlin was knocked over."

Percival looked from Arthur to Gwaine, then out at the sea. "He hasn't come back? Do his people know?" Arthur indicated his answers with a shake of his head, then a nod. "Surely they'll take care of him, then?"

Arthur didn't ask whether the big warrior meant, Merlin's recovery, or the recovery of his body.

Leon had a different reaction.

When Arthur had finally told the whole tale to the three of them and Lancelot – the axe wound, the fire-magic, the fall - Leon drew Arthur two paces away from the other two as they began to discuss the battle from their different points of view in low, preoccupied phrases.

"Do you think they'll blame us?" he said. "I think we've enough hands able to crew the ship, maybe it's best we set sail for…"

"No," Arthur said. He appreciated Leon's concern for him over the helplessness to do anything about Merlin, as he appreciated Lancelot's responsibility for his safety over any other's, but… "No."

They waited, and watched.

More sailors came up on deck, bandaged and fortified with a decent meal. The uninjured remained below for a good long while, helping Gaius.

Who emerged with all supplies necessary to make Arthur feel like a new man, at least physically. Washing water, salve, bandages, and a new shirt. Drinking water and a measure of ale, and a thick porridge with apples and spice.

"You're lucky it didn't break a rib or five," Gaius told him, with the caustic severity that covered his affection and relief. "Scratches and scrapes – I won't even need to sew any of these, though the marks might be slow to fade."

"I don't feel lucky, Gaius," he said, softly so he could not be overheard.

The old physician grunted. "Of the men, we've got two with broken ribs, one with a cracked bone in the forearm. Cuts and bruises – one severe concussion I might worry about, and the one who was submerged too long. Revived, but still unconscious."

"And what does that mean for Merlin?" he demanded, quick and desperate. "Give me some hope, here, Gaius." If there was hope, wouldn't they already know it. Wouldn't Merlin have returned to the ship, or wouldn't there be a messenger sent again? Even to say, they were taking him home?

"I don't believe there isn't any," Gaius said deliberately. The wrinkles on his face deepened as he squinted out at the sun-dappled water. "Remember Trytn's original spell."

"But it took almost a full day for Merlin to change to a human," Arthur argued. Wondering why he asked for hope, then resisted it.

"Hm. Well, sire, I can only point out that a mer-man merely boarding the ship did not constitute a crisis of survival… therefore the process might have been delayed through lack of pressing need."

"He didn't change back the night of the storm, either," Arthur pointed out.

"But – neither did either of you perish."

Arthur didn't know what to think. Believe. Hope.

So they waited.

He wouldn't let them drop anchor – just in case - so they drifted a bit. Onboard, resting and recuperating. Minor repairs, restoring ballast, and so on. Swabbing the deck clean.

He swallowed hard and didn't watch – and then found he _needed_ to watch the deckhand cleaning Merlin's blood. It felt more respectful, somehow.

And then there was no reminder that the young mer-man had ever been with them.

The ice melted. Slowly at first, then faster to their perception as the slab shrunk. Until finally the dried, burned, amputated carcass slid into the sea, and sank.

Arthur thought about the attraction of other sea-predators, and wondered if maybe the mer-people had vacated the area intuitively, like they would a battlefield, and wondered why the ship lingered.

But none of them surfaced to ask.

The blue-purple veils of rain on the horizon spread, dissipated, gathered and rushed over them.

The sunset promised to be splendid.

They waited.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Consciousness drifted as Merlin's body slipped through the layers of the sea.

It seemed to happen very slowly; he wondered if he was able to struggle, but there didn't seem to be a reason. He watched the ship fade into a distance, as the light of the surface dimmed.

The water around him was murky and troubled, and the blood from his neck trailed after him as he sank, but the salt sting eased the pain in his neck, and he let the grip of his protecting hand loosen. The cooler depths were clearer and the blood dissipated with the constant shift of low currents. He felt the pressure of the deeper water, comfortable and familiar, squeezing his whole body like an embrace, and remembered the abyssal.

 _Just my luck, I'll carry on sinking right down into that._

Tiny ripples in the water skittered over his arms, curled down his spine, and he wasn't surprised to see one of his people approach, swimming down to him steadily but unhurriedly, to his perception. A semi-solid cushioning of familiar magic coalesced beneath him, arresting his descent, and then he was not surprised to identify his father when the other drew near enough to recognize. He felt a bit of the anxious uncertainty that had gripped his heart upon seeing his father in the tower for the first time since becoming a human, but was reassured when Balinor only glided to a calm pause next to him. His father's expression was relaxed, the pride of victory subtle but appreciable.

" _So, Dyn-emris_."

" _The creature is dead_ ," he said, and wasn't sure if it was a question, or not. " _Father, I – I think I used fire-magic, with Arthur's weapon, and we killed it. But it knocked me off the ship_ ," he added apologetically.

" _How do you feel now_?" his father asked.

" _Very, very… tired_ ," he said honestly. " _Oh – there was a cut on my neck_ …" He explored it with his fingers, but felt no pain, and all seemed normal.

" _Let me see_." Balinor flicked a fin, and curved around to the side to check, tipping his head and brushing his hair away. " _You'll be fine, I think_."

His father's tone held a strange note of satisfaction that was very nearly _excited_ , but he was distracted, noticing that others were swimming to them. He recognized Will's muddy-orange color, relieved that he appeared to be unhurt after the fight.

" _Father, don't_ -" he said suddenly, quietly, twisting toward the king and away from the warriors – " _don't tell them I was clumsy, and scared_ …"

" _You might tell them yourself_ ," Belinor suggested, with a wry smile. " _It doesn't diminish anyone to admit to fear, or inexperience. I don't think they'll believe you, though_." He tried to nod, tried to resist the darkness creeping round the edge of his vision, the great fatigue plucking stubbornly at his limbs like a current. " _How about getting out of here_?" Balinor added, glancing an order to one of the others. " _Safer waters, and shallower, maybe_."

He felt someone move beside him – Will, taking his arm supportively. As his father took his other arm, he admitted to them both, " _I don't think I'm going to make it, I haven't any strength left_."

" _We've got you_ ," Will promised.

He let his eyes close and reveled contentedly in the slide of water, the agitation of swimming tails beside him as they traveled.

Will murmured something else, and the last thing he heard was Balinor's answer.

" _Yes, all four_."

Because surely he dreamed the words that followed.

" _You will be a greater king than I one day, Dyn-emris. I am so proud of you_."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Arthur," Leon said.

His voice didn't exactly interrupt Arthur's vigil. The lantern-light didn't reach far enough over the rail to require all of his attention to watch, and he'd been aware of Leon's presence ever since his second-in-command had ordered Gwaine from his position on the opposite side of the deck, to his below-decks hammock.

"Gaius' patient – the one underwater for too long? – moments ago breathed his last."

Arthur exhaled heavily. Almost painfully. "Thank you for letting me know."

"Percival is helping wrap the man for burial," Leon continued, shifting to gaze out over the unforgiving sea-waves, the white wash of each individual crest providing the discernment of shape and motion.

"We'll hold the ceremony in the morning," Arthur said. "I'll tell Lancelot…" He'd also go with his captain, when they reached their home port and the family was notified of their loss. It was the least he could do.

"And then?" Leon shifted, and once again studied him, though Arthur didn't take his gaze from the far darkness. "If he's all right, or if he's… not. Sire, they may simply not return at all."

Arthur passed his hand over his face before finally regarding Leon. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Merlin was… brave in a way I could never be." To come among an alien race – though it could be argued, because of the net he didn't have much choice – to remain, to share his secrets, to risk his life. "Selfless, in a way I can barely grasp."

A prince fully willing to accept drastic physical changes that might preclude marriage to his lover, and all future interaction with his own people, up to and including relinquishing the throne to another – to attempt to master suddenly-manifesting magical abilities, even in the middle of the battle, and injured…

He shook his head, and turned back to the sea, ever-changing.

 _Giving your life_ seemed a simple phrase. Dying for something you believed in. But it was more – it was losing all the possibilities for family and love and happiness and achievement forever after. Or admitting such a change as Merlin had – all-encompassing and maybe permanent. Whatever the safety and good of the kingdom required.

"He was special," Leon said. "I was glad to have known him."

Arthur was acutely aware they'd both been speaking in the past tense. He growled, "Don't say that like he's –"

"Hello!"

A clear voice rang out over the water, a young male voice, and Arthur scrambled for the nearest lantern, raising it and squinting into the dimness off the starboard bow.

"Merlin?" he called.

Deliberate splashing to draw their attention. Two dark arms, and light wet hair.

"That's not Merlin," Leon observed needlessly.

Arthur took a guess. "Will?" Again sent as a messenger? "What happened with Merlin? Is he okay?"

"We have Dyn-emris," Will called up to them, his enunciation sounding awkward. The word sounded familiar, what Merlin had said when first trying to introduce himself. "We are taking him home."

"Merlin Emrys?" Arthur said, to clarify; Will nodded.

"Oh, good, they found him," Leon said, relieved.

Arthur wasn't ready to share the sentiment. "Yes, but is he all right?" he called down to the mer-man. "What of that cut in his neck?" He tipped his own head and drew the line of Merlin's wound to demonstrate.

Will copied the movement, but more in puzzlement than understanding, and Arthur glimpsed his own set of gill-slits. "We have Dyn-emris, we are taking him home."

"We didn't see him surface again," Arthur tried again. "Was he breathing okay?"

Will shrugged and let out a series of squeals and clicks.

Leon said, "Sire, maybe… they only found his body, and are taking him home for whatever funeral rites they observe? That message obviously didn't come from Merlin."

No, from Balinor. Arthur wished the sea-king had come himself, at least it might have been a conversation, and questions answered. "Will – is he alive? Are we going to be allowed to see him or speak to him?"

The young mer-man huffed visibly. And repeated, "We have Merlin. We take him –"

"Home, yes, got that," Arthur finished, frustrated.

Will rose a little further from the water and leaned to gesture to the harness that held a knife below his right arm. He clicked and called, reaching up to Arthur expectantly.

"He wants Merlin's sheath and knife," Leon guessed. "Gaius still has that somewhere, I think, or Gwaine will know where it is."

"No," Arthur called back down to Will, shaking his head emphatically. "You tell Merlin he has to come get it himself."

"Sire…" Leon murmured, a bit reproachfully.

Will gave them an exasperated look – of course he hadn't understand that condition – then dove down and was gone.

Arthur slapped the rail in vexation, then turned toward the captain's cabin where Lancelot had been asleep for over an hour already, the helm marginally supervised by his mate, as they drifted for the night.

"Orders, my lord?" Leon said, following.

"Funeral rites at first light. We'll set sail immediately afterward – around Land's End and make for Aetlantys, or as close to that one rock as we can navigate," Arthur said, and turned enough to meet Leon's gaze over his shoulder. "I can't just go home and _wonder_ for the rest of my life. Even if it means mourning him."

Leon nodded once in agreement, and turned for the main hatch and companionway that led to the berth deck; Arthur knew Gwaine and Percival and Gaius would know his intentions by morning.

And Lancelot wouldn't argue either, he thought, giving a glance to his sleeping captain, rolled in his blanket with his back turned. He set the lantern on the table and snuffed it before taking to his own bunk.

Arthur supposed there was every chance the mer-people would not show themselves, pretend they didn't exist, and never had. He thought that secrecy must be a policy for them, if not a law. Their capture of Merlin coincidental, the fact that he wasn't dangerously hostile their luck – while the fact that _they_ weren't callously mercenary _his_ luck.

If you believed in luck.

He rather thought he didn't, anymore.

In any case, Balinor had spoken to him. Had sent a messenger – twice now – to the human ship, when it would have been better for secrecy's sake, and the subsequent safety of his people, not to. He hoped that the sea-king would be agreeable to another conversation, if the Medusa showed up in Aetlantys' water.

And if not… Arthur didn't know. He was aware that his own father and their court – and all the sailors stuck in port - were waiting to hear if they had been successful. If _he_ was going to return home safely. He snorted to realize he was going to have to stand there and tell a tale where _they_ were all heroes, and their mer-folk allies left unmentioned. And before he'd met Merlin Emrys with his peculiar form of humility, it might have grated on his pride.

He hoped Balinor would grant him an audience. He had to know if the sea-prince had returned safely home to his court and his family, before he could face his own.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He lay in the shadow of the ship just off the shore of the island, as before, thinking and watching. Marveling, it may be, at all that had happened in less than a week's time. Remembering his caution and fear, the last time he had waited thus.

Contemplating his father's warning, and his own decision. Whether he was jeopardizing the safety and future of his people for a whim – not that Balinor believed that, but it was a valid consideration – or whether a bit of a risk in trusting an honorable man and a prince among his own people might pay back definite benefits, in years to come.

 _They already know about us. Who we are, where we live, what we're capable of._

 _Although, they can't know that we haven't simply melted back into unknown reaches of the sea, despite our ties to this place._

 _But I trust Arthur with that information._

Was trust worth the risk. He believed yes.

And in any case, he couldn't imagine the situation in reverse. If Arthur had been injured and taken below-decks, and the humans simply raised the anchor and set their sails for the wind to take them home, and he never knew what became of Arthur.

No. _Always wanted a brother, though… Me, too_.

He floated on his back, outstretched fingers caressing the sand inches beneath him, a flicker of muscle sufficient to keep him in place, and waited for the sun-haired leader to show himself at the rail.

It wasn't long. Arthur drifted into view leaning on the gunnel, once again staring out across the sea. East-southeast toward the abyssal, the scene of the battle, now won. For a moment he wondered what the other prince was thinking.

Then Dyn-emris spread his fingers and moved his arms, and the dual stroke was enough to bring him three fathoms up to the surface, just below Arthur. Who caught the movement and looked down as he broke into the air and shook the salt droplets away from his face.

Arthur gave him an uninhibited smile of deep satisfaction.

"Good morning," Dyn-emris greeted him.

"It is," Arthur agreed. "You look well. Your neck?"

He lifted himself further out of the gentle waves, and turned to show Arthur. Nothing but gill-slits. "It's fine," he said. "All healed. You?"

Arthur huffed. "Mine will take a bit longer, but – nothing broken, and no stitches."

"I'm glad," Dyn-emris told him.

Arthur leaned back, looking over his shoulder toward the interior of the ship. "Percival," he called. "Ask Gaius to come up here for a minute, and roll Gwaine out of his hammock, will you? We've got company."

Higher up on the quarterdeck, Lancelot leaned over to give him a waved salute, and Leon joined him a moment later to toss down a question, "None the worse for wear?"

"Much better than I was," Dyn-emris called back. "The ship is okay?"

"Scrapes and bumps," Lancelot answered. "Much like our prince…" He smiled and all three of them ignored Arthur's glare. "I cannot begin to say how much we all appreciated your help, and that of your people."

Dyn-emris said, very deliberately, "Any time."

The captain's grin widened. "Feel free to visit the Medusa whenever you please, my friend, we'll be happy to have you."

Two men appeared almost simultaneously beside Arthur, and Dyn-emris lifted a hand from the water to wave. The big warrior's square-jawed face was already split with a boyish grin of anticipation. "Good to see you!"

The old man actually laughed out loud. "Merlin!" he exclaimed. "I wondered if such might be the case. So you made the change back without any ill effects?"

He brought the rest of his body up to float on the surface with a flick of fins and webbed hands to balance. "My father said he thought it must have happened almost right away."

"Your father said?" That was Arthur, and Dyn-emris focused on the prince once again, cringing slightly.

"Yes, and I'm sorry. I honestly didn't notice – I was really tired, and I just sort of let the others take me away. I only just found out last night that the message he sent was a bit…"

"Uninformative?" Arthur said, but his smile lingered. "No, don't apologize, Merlin – Your father is a wise king, and he saved my life. I did wish to thank him personally, also."

"I will tell him," Dyn-emris promised.

Arthur cocked his head and his expression took on a shade of teasing. "He does know you're here, this time?"

He answered with a flip of his tail, sending water splashing up to them. "He wasn't sure it was wise, but was willing to let me take the chance and make the choice."

"What about the magic, Merlin?" Gaius called. "I understand your abilities more closely resemble those of Aetlantys' founder Poseidon, than his son Trytn who cast the spell to save your people?"

Dyn-emris nodded. "Not sure what use I'll have for control of air and fire, now," he said, trying to shrug off the significance of additional powers he wasn't quite comfortable with yet. "But yes. All four."

"It was impressive," Percival commented. "Damn useful, too. Saved my life, and two of my boat-mates."

"Well," Dyn-emris said, including all of his new friends. "Without your men, many of our warriors would have died."

Another figure appeared – briefly, before launching himself over the rail with a delighted yelp. "Merlin!"

"Gwaine!" he said, laughing around the splash of salt-water. The long-haired warrior surfaced awkwardly, struggling to stroke to him and wrap him in an affectionate hug.

"Damn, boy, you had us worried – and now you show up fine and frolicking!" He pushed back so he could better keep himself afloat.

"Boy?" Dyn-emris said, pretending affront, but he couldn't keep the grin off his face. He was glad to see that none of them were seriously injured; that had influenced his desire for this last visit, too.

"Or should I say _fish_?" Gwaine lunged at him again, so suddenly Dyn-emris was pushed below the surface.

This, he did understand. A game of wrestling he and Will had often played. He twisted a bit, got a grip of his own on Gwaine's clothing – a detail which made his victory that much easier than if his opponent wore slippery scales – and with a twitch of his tail rolled the dark-haired human half-a-fathom down.

Gwaine struggled. He didn't make it easy – and Dyn-emris was laughing too hard, anyway. After a moment he released his friend and gave him a shove toward the surface, following.

"What were you thinking, Gwaine?" Arthur said, and there was laughter in his voice that made Dyn-emris grin just to hear. "You're never going to win a contest like _that_ with him!"

"Percival, jump in!" Gwaine gasped. "I think we can take him, together."

The big warrior leaned his elbows on the rail in tacit decline and suggested mildly, "Perhaps in shallower water."

"We haven't the time," Lancelot called from the quarterdeck, as Leon dropped down the steep stair to retrieve the rolled rope-ladder. "Not if we want to sail with the tide…" The other men looked across and up at him as he spoke.

Except for Arthur, who held Dyn-emris' gaze.

Well, yes. This was meant to be goodbye, wasn't it.

"I was going to come to Aetlantys," Arthur said. "I hoped to speak to your father, ask after you."

"Ah," he responded lamely. "Guess you don't have to, anymore."

"No..."

"I have something for you," Gaius called down, bringing out Will's knife, wrapped in his own shoulder-harness. Dyn-emris put out his hands and the old man let the weapon drop.

"Thanks very much," he said. "This is Will's knife, actually, he was quite cross I'd left it. And my mother made the harness." Unwrapping it, he slipped his arms through the loops and adjusted the angle of the sheath under his right, as Percival and Leon affixed the rope ladder to the rail, and unfurled it over the side of the ship.

"Oh, I hate goodbyes," Gwaine mourned, paddling to keep his head above water and the rest of him in one place.

"It doesn't have to be," Dyn-emris said optimistically. "Lancelot said I can come aboard the Medusa anytime –"

"My ship is your ship," the captain interjected generously.

"And maybe we can arrange a signal, if you ever want to contact us," he finished.

"Our standard is red," Arthur said, gesturing at the pennant that flapped in the breeze atop the crows-nest. "How about – if we're flying a blue one, it's meant for you."

"I'm sure my father will agree, and I can let our people know – that way, as long as someone sees, I won't miss the message."

Gwaine turned about in the water to begin squirming toward the rope ladder; Dyn-emris reached under his elbow to help propel him smoothly to the goal. "Hells, Merlin," Gwaine managed as his hand caught hold; he shook water from his hair with a single calculated sling of his head. "I _can_ swim, you know."

"Oh, is that what you were doing," he teased; the dark-haired warrior rolled his eyes and began to climb, water cascading from his clothing. "My mistake." Ostentatiously he twisted to dive back over his own left shoulder, deliberately slapping his tail-fin on the surface as the rest of him slid smoothly under.

Heaven and earth, how he loved the water.

From far away, he heard the echoing call. They'd let him go on his own, respect for privacy and all that, but his father and Will and the rest of the warriors waited about a quarter-league off. " _I'm coming – a moment more_." He surfaced and blinked up at the row of men at the rail of the ship above him, as Gwaine joined them, dripping wet.

Friends of his, all.

"Don't forget your promise?" he called to Arthur, a bit shyly, aware of the sailors – more curious than kind – about the ship.

"No one will bother your people if I can help it," Arthur repeated with a firm nod that Dyn-emris believed. "Don't you forget yours?" His surprise must have shown on his face, for Arthur added with a half-grin, "That relaxing holiday at the hot springs far to the north?"

Dyn-emris couldn't help laughing out loud, and only nodded. "It was a genuine pleasure, meeting you all," he added, including each man, and marveled a bit more at the chorus of agreement that showered down on him. "I'm being called, though."

He jerked his thumb to indicate the open sea, and twitched his tail to begin to move backward away from them. He kept his head above water to see them as clearly as he could, as long as he could.

"You ever feel like going about on two legs again, let me know," Gwaine called, hands cupped around his mouth so the sound would carry, speaking slowly so the words wouldn't slur unintelligibly together. "I know this dockside tavern – I'll show you what it means to drink like a fish!"

Dyn-emris smiled to himself, though he didn't understand the human joke. Gaius shook his head, and the others laughed and grouped about the roguish warrior for a bit of good-hearted roughness.

Except Arthur, who raised one hand in farewell.

He lifted his own, blue-scaled and webbed as it should be, then turned and dove down, eager for his own home once again.

Because it wasn't goodbye, after all.

 **A/N: Alrighty, that's about it, except for the epilogue… Thanks again to everyone who read – and especially who followed, favorited, and reviewed! I greatly appreciated all the comments, even if I didn't get/take the chance to respond!**

 **On a completely unrelated note, isn't there an episode where Arthur makes a reference to an unknown 'guardian angel' (which we know is Merlin)? I thought it was "Poisoned Chalice" but I couldn't find the quote. Can someone point me in the direction of the right episode?**


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue – Two Years Later**

Arthur stood absolutely still in his bedchamber, next to the open window, staring at the object in his hand. He lifted it briefly to sniff it, and a wave of memories crashed over him – good and not-so-good – at the faint scent of salt.

He didn't even hear the knock at the door, but alerted to the feminine inquiry without looking up. "Arthur?"

"Guinevere," he responded. "Come in."

Her slippers clicked on the stone floor as she approached, and slipped her arms around his middle from behind. And as quick as they'd both been to progress comfortably to physical affection, she was also quick to notice his mood, peering around his upper arm at the fantastically dainty object cradled between his hands. "What is that?"

"It's a _note_ ," he said.

"May I?" He relinquished it to her gentle touch, and she rotated the fragile leaf in her hands. "It looks like a leaf, but it feels like it's made of _clay_ ," she said, beginning to sound as astonished as he felt.

And sharing the feeling helped him accept that it and its cause were both real and reasonable. He turned to look at his betrothed lady, black curls neatly yet naturally dressed, russet silk fine and demure, yet showing her figure's curves to advantage and perfectly complementing the rich glow of her skin. She was making a face of puzzlement at the leaf that he found utterly adorable, and he decided to kiss her at the first reasonable opportunity.

She glanced up at him bemusedly. "But that's impossible," she ventured. "It's so thin and light – where did you get it?"

"It blew in at my window," he said, gesturing at he leaned back into the casement and crossed his arms over his chest. "If you really want to see something spectacular – turn it over."

She did so gingerly, as if afraid that the edges might flake and crumble, then gasped. And traced the fine fiery script with her fingertips. "That's – Arthur, that's _magic_."

"If I had to guess," he said deliberately, "Earth to form it, fire to write it, air to send it." She met his eyes uncertainly, and he reminded her mildly, "I've told you before, my opinions on various subjects differ from my father's, to various degrees. Magic being one of them."

She simply looked at him, learning him a little better, it may be. Realizing, as he had begun to, that they were moving their accepted relationship into new territory, once again. Admiration… respect… _trust_.

"Who do you know that does magic, and writes you notes?" she murmured.

"Not _notes_. Just the one. It's been two years…"

She furrowed her brow to read the tiny elegant lines. " _Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot. You are hereby invited to the wedding ceremony of Merlin Emrys, prince of…_ "

After a moment of silence, he finished for her. "Aetlantys."

She looked up, and a smile quirked at her full lips. "Your friend has a sense of humor."

Arthur laughed softly, tipping his head back. "That he does… Although in this instance, I rather think he's perfectly serious."

"Aetlantys?" she said. "Arthur, I know we joke about – these quests you've been on, things you've seen, beasts you've defeated, all the stories, but…"

He leaned forward to snag her wrist, and she let him draw her close, clasp his arms about her waist. "You remember the one about the kraken?"

She grimaced daintily. "Yes, and I couldn't eat seafood for a week."

"Well… we had help." She raised an eyebrow, and he smiled. "Aetlantys is a real place, love. I've been there. Well, the one highest tower that still rises above the water."

"And a prince still lives there?" she said, still mostly incredulous, but willing to be convinced, since it was _him_ , and only him.

"Poseidon had four children," he said, "who ruled Aetlantys, each with an elemental affinity for magic. They got along okay – until they didn't. The one with earth-magic sunk the whole island-city, but Trytn of the water-magic cast a great spell of adaptability over the citizens, saving their lives though their home was now submerged."

"Adaptability," she repeated slowly.

"Mer-people." She twisted in his arms to search his eyes – probably for any hint that he was teasing her. "Honest, Guinevere, we'd probably have lasted less than a quarter of an hour against the kraken without their help."

"But you never… oh. No, you couldn't tell your father, I suppose."

She was very gracious about Uther, always. Arthur suspected she understood the king of Camelot quite well, and was prepared to marry him as prince in spite of her future father-in-law.

"So you made friends with their prince, and now he's invited you to the wedding," she said.

He murmured confirmation and tightened his hold, cuddling her a little and looking at her mouth as she looked at his windblown-leaf invitation. Was it his imagination that she was pouting, slightly – but it only made him want to kiss her more.

" _The day of the light of the earth_ ," she finished reading. "That's the old way of saying the vernal equinox, isn't it? You have a little over a week… _Bring the boys_." She shifted to face him. "The boys?"

"Leon, Percival, and Gwaine," he explained. "Gaius will be sorry to miss it – that broken ankle of his – but of course we'll sail on the Medusa, Lancelot's ship. You remember him, you met at the Yule feast."

"Of course," she said; Arthur could tell that it was a polite fib, and hid his smile.

She was still pouting. He raised his eyebrows – fully aware of the ramifications of what he was asking, how far he was trusting – and said, "Would you like to come?"

Her lips parted in surprised pleasure. "To a mer-maid's wedding?"

"Well, yes, I suppose there does have to be at least the bride at the prince's wedding," he joked – then remembered that Merlin had not been sure of the permission for his purple-scaled Freya. Well, they'd know soon enough. "And the sea-queen, I met her briefly, also…"

"The sea-queen!" His answer danced whole-heartedly in Guinevere's dark eyes. "Oh, Arthur!"

He took his chance, and she responded to his kiss with as much enthusiasm as he could have wished for.

…*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He sat on the stone in the sunshine to wait, content to let the warming rays of mid-spring slowly dry the borrowed shirt and trousers he wore, watching the tiny distant sails of the ship coming gradually into greater focus and size.

Will sprawled lazily just below, half in the water and flipping his tail-fin negligently. " _You know, I could have swum to their ship and back by now_ ," he claimed. " _How about using a little of this grand power you're supposed to have, and hurry them along_?"

" _My father said, no magic today_ ," he answered.

Will made a sarcastic noise. " _He thinks your emotions are worked up enough, he doesn't want to chance what your magic might do_?"

He couldn't help grinning. " _And especially around the humans. Patience, Will. They'll be here soon enough – the wind is good_."

" _Patience, Will_ ," his friend grumbled. " _You've taken more than your fair share of chances to be impatient, these last two years, and who put up with all your moaning and groaning through that_?"

Merlin stretched out his left leg to nudge Will with his bare human toes. " _You did_ ," he said. " _Mainly because no one puts up with you, either_."

" _That does it_." Will flipped over, grabbing him by the ankle and pulling him down into the water.

He kicked ineffectually, trying to grab any piece of the crumbled outside of the tower to hold himself back. " _No! No, come on! You know I can't – Not fair, Will_!"

His friend only grinned as he tumbled into the water, struggling now to maintain the surface.

It was a struggle over quickly, as Will rolled them down, and he held his breath. Sixty beats of his heart, all the time he had to win before conceding his loss and scrambling for surface air. He went for the eyeballs first, as a distraction for his true intention, the knife under Will's arm.

" _Why do you bother_?" Will questioned blithely, evading him. " _You know you won't win. The king said no magic, and you don't want to ruin your fine human clothes_."

" _Fine_ ," he scoffed, squirming and finding no hold. " _They have extra, Will_."

" _And you'd have to transform in front of them, and ask them for a loan_ …" Will bubbled a laugh right in his ear, which tickled.

Just before his face broke the surface and Merlin gasped air into his lungs. " _Damn, Will_."

" _All right, all right_." He fought for a bit as his friend changed his hold, then relaxed as he recognized the rhythm of a fast-traveling surface swim. " _Just relax, I'll take you to the ship, how about. Now that you're all wet, anyway._ " Merlin opened his mouth to say a surprised thank you, when Will added impudently, " _You've got to save your strength today, after all._ "

" _You just wait_ ," Merlin warned him, hanging on to Will's orange-scaled arm and blinking through the salt spray their progress tossed up.

" _Yeah, I've heard that before_."

Merlin let him have the last word. Ever since Balinor had given permission for their handful of trusted human acquaintances – friends, he'd silently corrected – to attend today's ceremony, Will had been acting a bit more surly than normal. But Merlin understood his friend, and wasn't bothered.

" _This is as far as I take you_ ," Will said finally.

He floundered a bit as Will's support dropped away, then ducked down to call after him. " _Thanks! I'll see you later_!"

Will flipped to swim backwards, a fathom and a half down and descending. " _Don't be late – Freya will kill you, then I'll marry her myself_!"

" _She wouldn't have you_!" Merlin had to surface for air, still laughing, and twisted to see the Medusa, close enough to recognize men at the rail.

The big one pointed; the long-haired one waved. Merlin waved back and paddled to position himself to catch the rope ladder they unrolled down the side, even though sailors up in the rigging were already taking in canvas to slow their speed.

"What happened to you?" Percival called down.

Merlin didn't answer right away, focused on climbing the ladder against the pull of the ship through the waves. He hadn't used these legs in months.

"Good choice, though - I told you, two legs are better than one tail," Gwaine said, reaching over to grab his arm and tug him properly on board.

"And I told you, a thousand leagues of open sea is better than a hundred paces of open deck," Merlin returned, as Gwaine wrestled him into a hug in spite of his wet clothes. Percival slapped his shoulder and he grinned.

"You're not disparaging my ship, are you?" Lancelot called down from the quarterdeck, turning the wheel over to his first mate to descend the ladder.

" 'Course not!" Merlin said. "My home away from home. How was the winter?"

"Boring – and yours?" Lancelot offered his hand and Merlin took it gladly.

"Cold."

"Merlin," Leon said from behind him, humor in his voice. "You're wearing your legs?"

He laughed at the turn of phrase, and felt a bit bad for watching over Leon's shoulder toward the captain's cabin. "Someone had to come tell you where to drop anchor, and of course I've got to be myself again for the ceremony. I don't know how close you're going to be able to get and afterwards, I'm going to be busy –"

Gwaine snorted, nudging him, and Merlin spared a half-hearted glare. The roguish human was just like Will. Then again, at the end of the day, _he_ was the one who'd have Freya.

Then the door of the captain's cabin opened, and Arthur came out, a surprised look on his face. "Merlin! What –"

He almost tripped over the main hatch cover in getting to the human prince – hadn't changed at all, looked perfectly fit and healthy – and Arthur ended up catching him by his outstretched hand instead of shaking it decorously.

Never mind. They'd never stood on protocol before.

"It's these damn knees," he complained, and Arthur's grin almost matched his own.

But the human prince had not come from the cabin alone. Behind him, a stranger lingered shyly – female, his mind said, her form was quite like the mer-women, and her dark hair was in a long braid over one shoulder, but her lower half was swathed in a sunshine-gold fabric he couldn't figure out.

"Merlin," Arthur was saying, a bit more formally. "This is the lady Guinevere – we are betrothed to be married in five months' time. Gwen, this is Merlin Emrys, the prince of Aetlantys."

"Oh, good!" Merlin said delightedly, thrusting his hand at her. She glanced at Arthur, uncertain, but let Merlin take her hand and shake it to show his very real pleasure. "I'm so glad to meet you – I've never seen a female human before – you _have_ got two legs under there, haven't you?" indicating the fabric.

He noticed Arthur chuckling behind him, and the lady Gwen was blushing; he assumed he'd disgraced himself by some human custom, but didn't much care. It was his wedding day, after all; nothing could go wrong.

So he added, complimenting her honestly and simultaneously teasing his friend, "You are very beautiful – are you sure you want to marry Arthur after all?"

"Hey!" Arthur shoved him.

She said, "He does have very interesting friends."

"Well, this lot isn't boring, I'll give you that," he said merrily, turning to look at the other four, who'd remained by the rail to allow Merlin to greet Arthur and be introduced to his lady; they were talking quietly and looking across the sea toward the chunk of rock that was the tower remnants.

"She meant you, Merlin," Arthur said.

"Oh, yes?"

Gwen was still showing red under her darker skin tone. "Would you like a towel, or a change of clothes?" she asked. "I'm sure Arthur could –"

He shivered as the breeze cooled his wet clothes, but answered cheerfully, "No thank you, these are really more than I need, and I've got to get back into the water anyway pretty soon."

"So you've got the transformation under control?" Arthur said.

"Yes – Lancelot probably told you, I've come on voyage a few days, a few times."

Arthur smiled, relaxed and unoffended. "I do wish _my_ duties allowed for pleasure-voyages," he scoffed.

"You're welcome," Merlin said.

"What?"

He gestured expansively – ship, sea, lady – "Now they do." Gwen chuckled as Arthur shoved his shoulder playfully. "I'm so glad you're here, actually," he said to her, more seriously. "Freya – that's my betrothed – is still a bit nervous at the thought of humans, though I'm almost completely sure I've got her convinced to let me do introductions, later. I think she'll be much more comfortable knowing there's a female on-board."

"I look forward to meeting her," Gwen declared, and Merlin could tell, the sentiment was genuine and not just polite. He liked her; he was happy for Arthur.

"Ah, Freya," Arthur said, visibly relaxing. "I did wonder, actually, when I got your invitation – a chance to show off your elemental magic, was it?"

"Wonder what?" Merlin said, not ashamed to let pride in his handiwork show.

"I remembered you said – there were issues of heritage, you weren't sure you were going to be able to marry her?"

"Yes – and I have you to thank for it, a bit," Merlin said. "The human transformation, and the other two elements – they decided I had quite enough power to be going on with, and I didn't necessarily have to marry someone with magic, to make sure it was carried on in the royal line."

"Good for you," Arthur said, allowed a half-smile, in shared satisfaction.

"Merlin – where is a good place for us to drop anchor?" Lancelot spoke from behind him, as the other four joined them.

"Southwest of the tower by a league and a half?" he said. "Then you won't have to worry about what's under you."

"A league and a half," Gwaine exclaimed, disappointed. "We're not meant to witness your ceremony, then?"

"Oh, no – of course you are," Merlin said. "I thought, you could row the long-boat? We'll be at the surface – though I suppose you won't understand what we're saying…"

"Do you usually hold weddings out in the open like this?" Gwen asked.

"No, underwater," he answered. "This is… well, I wanted you all to _come_ , you know, and… I mean…"

Arthur guessed, "The whole kingdom is coming and you haven't got a room big enough otherwise?"

Merlin laughed in relief at the other prince's understanding. _You as well, hm_? he thought, with affection. "Only the boldest will probably surface, with you there, but yes, that's the idea. _Everyone_ comes – which is why I'll be busy after the ceremony," he threw at Gwaine.

Who suggested unrepentantly, "After after?"

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Well, I should go – the last thing I need is my father sending someone to get me. Gwen, it was lovely to meet you –"

"We brought a gift for your bride," she said, glancing at Arthur as if unsure she was giving away secrets.

"I won't tell – but I will be sure about the introductions now." He turned to Arthur. "You didn't have to, you know," he said, more quietly. "Just the fact that you're here…" Arthur had been less physically demonstrative than Gwaine, but he didn't seem at all surprised when Merlin stepped closer for a moment to wrap his arms around him.

"Wet and slimy," Arthur said cheerfully, slapping his sodden shirt on his back. "Should we come immediately?"

"Within the hour," Merlin said, stepping back so he could see them all at once. "I am – happier than I can say, that you all have come." They smiled and spoke their pleasure in a jumble also, and Merlin reached the rail.

"Ladder's down a bit," Arthur said, pointing with one hand as he tucked his lady into his side with the other, a place she seemed perfectly content to be.

Merlin grinned. "I've gotten better at this, too." He stepped up onto the rail, and dove over.

The water was at once cool, and warmer than the air. As he kicked deeper, before removing the human clothes for his transformation back to scales and fins, he turned on his back to look through the water to the rail. It was as easy as ever to pick out the sun-haired leader in the row of men – and one lady.

Yes. Now his day was perfect.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Guinevere had spent considerable time and thought on what she would wear to such an unusual wedding, and Arthur found that adorable, also. Not that she was so feminine in her concerns, but because she took the whole ceremony, and her attendance, so seriously.

She'd finally asked Arthur his opinion, the afternoon before they'd embarked on their parentally-permitted and officially-ostensible tour of the coast. _You said the women don't actually wear anything, so I don't want to stand out more than we already will, but I don't want to offend them if it looks like I put on just any old thing – what do you think_?

He'd shrugged, casting an inexpert eye over the variety of colors and textures on display throughout the guest-quarters she'd occupied for the past half-year, since their betrothal.

"Wear something that won't be ruined by salt water," he told her.

The gold-hued linen suited her, he thought, as he helped her descend to the long-boat, as Percival and Gwaine held it steady. The color reflected the sunny day and made her skin and hair seem to glow. It was light without being fragile, and the boots she wore as practical aboard-ship were neither inappropriate or conspicuous below the hem. Lancelot and Leon descended also, and Arthur handed his lady to a seat in the bow, out of the way of rowers and steersman.

"That rock is their highest tower," Arthur told her, pointing. "And I had the impression that this whole area is their city, submerged."

She looked down past the waves, fascinated – maybe a little intimidated. "They can all see us, then," she guessed, and glanced around the water – there was no sign of any of the mer-people.

Arthur found he was looking down, too, to see if he could catch a glimpse of anyone swimming closer to the surface. "What did you think of Merlin?" he asked.

"Well, he was very sweet… and very frank." Gwaine, rowing with his back to them, snorted. She added, "He's likeable – you all seem to like him very much."

"He's easy to like," Lancelot said.

"He's brave," Percival commented.

"And stubborn," Gwaine added.

"You were surprised that he was skinny and young," Arthur said.

"Well, after hearing the stories – he saved your life in the storm, defended the ship against the kraken, and helped you to kill it – I rather expected…" she hesitated briefly, "someone more like you all."

"Big, rough, and tough?" Gwaine tossed over his shoulder with the edge of a grin.

"Wait til you see him in his natural form, my lady," Leon advised. "They are quite strong, and graceful at the same time."

"I didn't expect to see him in human form, first," she admitted, "if at all."

"Barefoot, and dripping wet," Lancelot remarked with a good-natured smile, "and we're lucky he remembered clothes, this time."

Guinevere blushed and the men snickered, until Arthur cleared his throat. Leaning back in the bow with his arm loosely around the lady, he said, " _Noble_." She twisted to look a question at him, as the others fell silent to consider. "He transformed to welcome us as royal guests in the form we might be most comfortable with." He met Lancelot's eyes where he sat in the stern, one hand on the tiller. "Does it still hurt him?"

"He says not, but it definitely seems… uncomfortable at best," the captain answered, with a faint grimace.

"He's a prince," Arthur stated in conclusion. "And a damn good one."

"You surely wouldn't hop off the end of a pier in your chainmail and cloak to greet a guest from their kingdom," Gwaine teased.

"We're here," Lancelot said suddenly. "Ship oars, fellows."

Arthur and Guinevere both twisted around as the men clattered the oars into the long-boat, out of the way. All around them, mer-people were breaching the surface. Some with just a quick flash of wet hair and curious eyes, before they were gone again, others in knots with companions, talking softly to each other in soft squeals and rapid clicks, affecting to ignore the boat of humans but studying them in surreptitious wariness.

"See anyone you recognize?" Percival asked.

"I think that one might've been fighting near our boat," Gwaine said, pointing out a yellow-green male with a wave; the mer-man looked startled, but returned the gesture – and immediately became the center of a bit of localized attention.

"There's Will," Leon said, nodding instead of the more obvious gesture, and as Arthur looked, Merlin's orange-brown friend turned his back on the boat.

"Here they are," Arthur said, recognizing the royal family a few lengths beyond Will – and alerted by the fact that the mer-people's attention all snapped to the newly-arrived foursome.

"That's the king," Guinevere said, with a nervous glance at Arthur as Balinor caught his eye and gave him a nod of grave welcome.

"And the queen his wife, her name's Hunith." Arthur performed a seated half-bow, warmed by Hunith's smile – Freya's shy acknowledging glance – Merlin's gleaming grin.

"And the purple one is Freya? She's gorgeous… You were right about Merlin, too." Though she spoke softly, Guinevere sounded impressed, if not awed. "But… they don't seem to have any… organization to this, do they?"

Arthur glanced around; she was right. There was no head-of-the-room, no ranked rows discernible. "They're very – unpretentious," he said. "Though that doesn't mean simple, or naïve, at all."

"They're beautiful."

Balinor did most of the talking at the ceremony, though Hunith did interrupt without offense, more than once, and at one point all the people made a collective response; no one seemed to notice or mind the dipping or occasional splash of waves. Then – Arthur guessed – it was time for vows. Freya's were spoken too low to be audible from where they were, but she wore a shy blush that made Arthur smile – and when Merlin replied a moment later with such firm maturity that he huffed a proud chuckle, Guinevere elbowed him, then whisked away a tear.

The sea-king made a final speech which brought chuckles and smiles from his audience – mild exasperation from his wife – and absolutely no response from bride or groom, who were lost in each other's eyes and smiles from barely a foot of distance. Balinor finished in a tone of proud amusement and reluctant indulgence.

Merlin's blue-scaled hand came up from below the surface to cup Freya's face, and one of her purple-hued arms twined over his shoulder – their foreheads touched. Arthur could swear he heard Merlin make some last, brief, private communication, which made Freya smile.

And Merlin kissed her smile.

Arthur found that Guinevere was squeezing his hand and beaming, eyes brimming with happy tears.

The mer-people voiced open-mouthed squeals and clicks both joyful and sarcastic. Gwaine whistled; the other men were applauding.

Merlin and Freya kept kissing, her hands in his hair and his out of sight now below the waterline, evidently occupied in holding her close. A look of impatience crossed Balinor's face, but Hunith rose from the water to whisper in his ear; he turned his face to kiss his own wife, and subsided, before swimming around the newlyweds and heading for the human's boat, the ceremony evidently complete.

Guinevere inhaled swiftly, and gripped his forearm with her other hand to watch the king come.

Arthur's gaze was drawn back to Merlin and Freya for a single moment, to see Merlin cupping some object in his fingertips that shocked or pleased – or both – his new bride. Then Merlin smoothed Freya's wavy shoulder-length dark hair back and tucked the object, shiny-white, into place just above her ear.

And Balinor was at the boat, lifting himself onto the side – Percival leaned over the opposite to balance the smaller craft – to extend his hand to Arthur. Who didn't hesitate to grasp the sea-king's hand – gray-scaled, webbed, and dripping wet.

"Congratulations, my lord," he said. "Thank you for inviting my men and me to your son's wedding."

Balinor nodded and released his hand – Arthur wondered for a moment if the sea-king had lost or forgotten what little of the human language he'd absorbed, two years ago, before he spoke.

"I could not want a better," Balinor said, turning momentarily to look at Merlin. The shell-horn was visible in it's own peculiar secure-strap beneath his knife-sheath on his side; Guinevere was not the only one wide-eyed at the clear view and proximity of such a powerful artifact. "For heir, or son."

"He's a good man," Arthur said without thinking.

But Balinor only made a sound of agreement at his use of the human term, humor sparkling in gray-blue eyes, and inquired politely, "Your kingdom is at peace, since two years?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Arthur returned. "We are fortunate in our allies… Your kingdom has been peaceful as well, I take it?"

"Minor concerns only, but that is to be expected." He waved a hand negligently. "You have brought a lady with you, Prince."

"I have."

"She is your wife?"

Arthur smiled. That straightforward manner – honest without being offensive – was something he appreciated about this people, and rather valued in Merlin. "Wife-to-be," he answered. "Lady Guinevere, may I introduce Balinor, king of Aetlantys."

Guinevere bravely put out her hand, and the king shook it gently. "I wish you joy," he told her. "You have a good man here, also."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she managed.

Balinor looked to the other four men in the boat, then. "Welcome to our home," he said politely, inclusively. "We appreciate your continued discretion."

Arthur ignored his men's responses; Hunith had just glided up beside her husband. She reached with a smile to put her moss-green hand gently on his, clicked and purred in a way that made him feel comfortable and relaxed.

Balinor turned to look down at her, and spoke to her for a moment. She responded, then turned her kind, motherly smile on Guinevere, reaching for her hand next.

"Hunith, my wife," Balinor explained. "She had assumed the two of you already wed; I'm not sure she believes my correction." The teasing was gentle and loving – though Hunith probably couldn't understand what he said, she definitely caught the tone and look, and gave him a fond frown in return.

"It was a lovely ceremony," Guinevere said to her – remembered that the king had to translate for a confused moment - then recovered by adding honestly, "It is such a privilege to come."

"Dyn-emris would not have it any other way." Arthur noticed the peculiar pronunciation of his friend's name they never could imitate; Hunith murmured something and Balinor translated, "If you have any questions or needs, please don't hesitate to ask. Most of my people may be shy of you, but they will also be courteous."

"Thank you very much, Your Majesty," Arthur responded.

Balinor reached for Hunith's hand and together they dove down. Following them with his gaze – this time Arthur could make out significant movement at varying levels of clarity beneath them. He wondered if that would prove problematic when they had to row back to the Medusa – but if they started slow and careful, probably the mer-people would withdraw to give them the space they needed.

Glancing back over the surface, he saw Merlin stroking lazily toward them, often interrupted but never losing that brilliant grin. Only… alone? Arthur was still searching the head-and-shoulders of the mer-people who remained for the bride, when Gwaine called out to their friend.

"How does it feel to be a married man, Merlin?"

"Great… you all should try it."

A chorus of groans answered Merlin's suggestion – a giggle from Gwen – and Arthur said deliberately, "That's my plan, _Mer_ lin."

The young mer-man clung to the side of the boat as his father had done, and turned to survey the sea-surface briefly, rumpling water from his dark hair.

Guinevere leaned into Arthur's side. "He's _blue_ ," she whispered.

Merlin heard and turned to her. "This form is quite different – I'm sorry if it startles you?" He offered his hand again – spread not vertically, as if to shake, but horizontally, as if to show.

Guinevere tentatively took his hand between hers, rubbing the wet scales almost gingerly, spreading his fingers so the webbing showed. "It is different," she allowed shyly. "But beautiful – the colors, and shades… Freya is mostly purple?"

He nodded, and Percival said, "Where is she? We want to offer her congratulations also."

"Or condolences," Gwaine muttered – and was promptly showered by a splash of Merlin's tail-fin as he turned again, casual though probably not accidental.

"She was going to –" At that moment Freya surfaced, behind and beside her husband, who twisted to gather her in one arm. "Gentlemen, my wife Freya, the princess of Aetlantys," Merlin said proudly, then clicked and hummed more gently to her.

Her dark eyes rested on each of them, and she gave shy nods to all in turn, as the men bowed their heads respectfully in reply. When Merlin came to him, Arthur held out his hand – carefully and politely. She hesitated and Merlin encouraged; her hand trembled in Arthur's and he was gentle and slow, lifting it to his lips for a salutary kiss.

"We wish you every happiness, Princess," he said, and as Merlin translated, he added, "Even if you are stuck with this idiot."

Guinevere whacked his arm; Merlin faltered and nearly laughed out loud. Freya gave him a clearly questioning look, and he just as clearly soothed her concern with a smile of good humor.

"Will you please tell her she makes a beautiful bride," Guinevere said, leaning forward. "Purple is a favorite color of mine, and she has so many gorgeous shades."

Merlin translated the compliment; Freya's eyes lingered on Guinevere in curiosity. She murmured a query in response – addressing it to Merlin, though, not Guinevere directly.

"I've explained to her about human clothes," Merlin said, crossing his arms over the side of the boat and moving his tail to keep a comfortable balance. "Except I didn't know it was different for females…"

"It's a dress, or a gown, the finer ones," Guinevere offered.

He nodded. "She wants to know, can you change it for one of another color."

"Oh, yes." Guinevere nodded at Freya. "All colors, and many shades."

Merlin spoke, Freya answered with interest; he responded to her with a touch of humor, before relaying back to them, "She wants to know how many you have, and what colors, and how you decide what to wear – I told her she should have taken my offer to teach her your language, so you two could talk properly."

"Dozens," Guinevere answered, with a cheerful sort of brevity. "All the rainbow – and sometimes I close my eyes and point."

She mimed doing it as Merlin translated; the other men in the boat chuckled as Freya's face lit with a smile. Her laugh was like bright clean water bubbling over sparkling rocks.

Arthur grinned; it occurred to him that his wife-to-be was impressing his closest friends in this one week of unusual activity more than months of dinners and dancing and escorted rides could do. And Merlin's shy bride was proving braver than many of their people who hadn't dared even surface while they were present. After the moment of unguarded merriment, though, Freya self-consciously squeezed water from her hair over her shoulder; he noticed the pearly object tucking several locks away from her face.

"Pardon my asking if it's rude, but that piece in her hair – did you give that to her in the ceremony?" Arthur asked.

"It's a custom," Merlin said, but without turning or looking – as if he spared Freya the discomfort of realizing what they were discussing. "I made it."

"You made that?" Guinevere blurted; she probably had a better idea of what such a thing involved than any of the men could appreciate.

"Yes – first I had to find the shell, then spend much time forming the teeth of the comb as well as – I don't know a better word – _scratching_? the design on the part that shows. Smoothing, polishing… it's meant to make you think about what _she's_ giving _you_ , and the care and commitment marriage takes."

"With or without magic?" Arthur clarified, a bit suspiciously.

"Oh, without. It has to be without."

"That's amazing," Leon said. It appeared to be a consensus opinion; Arthur felt a bit self-conscious that the youngest male could be so earnestly open on a topic he himself still felt an occasional qualm over, and the rest of them had shown no prior inclination to pursue. But Guinevere was thinking something else entirely.

"Maybe our gift is inappropriate, then?" she worried, lifting the small bag of cream silk from her lap. "It was only purchased…"

She opened the drawstring top and Arthur reached inside, as Merlin turned to explain to Freya. But the mer-maid's eyes widened at the sight of the trio of polished pearls on a short cord of braided silk, and her webbed fingers covered a gasp.

"You should do the honors," Arthur said, passing it to Merlin. "We thought it might be a bit in the way on her neck –" because of the gills – "but around her wrist?"

"Arthur, that's…"

A victory for him, if Merlin was rendered speechless.

His friend inspected it carefully, then turned to twine it around his bride's wrist, focusing on tying a secure but dainty knot. Freya met Arthur's eyes and deliberately mouthed, _Thank you_.

Arthur grinned wider. Another victory.

Once in place, Merlin caressed the bracelet and the scales of her arm, murmuring something to her that brought color to her cheeks. She answered, then cupped his face in both hands to pull him closer for a kiss.

"What did she say?" Guinevere asked softly, after they'd separated.

Merlin half-turned, blue eyes sparkling and deep like the sea, keeping his new wife in the crook of his arm. "She said, mine was better."

Arthur tossed his head back for a single, "Ha!" then told him with feigned seriousness, "That's as it should be."

"I wish you could come to the feast," Merlin said. "But it would be difficult to get you in, and impossible to do without getting wet…"

"That's all right," Leon spoke up, and Guinevere just behind, smoothing her skirt self-consciously.

"Oh, no thank you."

Freya hummed and clicked, and Merlin raised his eyebrows hopefully. "We could have some of the food delivered to the ship, if you like?"

Arthur took in his men's hesitation at a glance and said with a diabolical grin, "Yes, that would be fantastic." Gwaine deserved it, after all, and they'd be surprised at how palatable the seafood was.

"Let me just find someone to –" Freya murmured something and Merlin interrupted himself to answer. She gave them all a shy kiss-and-wave, and dove down out of sight. Merlin continued, "She's gone to make the request, so I'll just find someone who'll swim out to the ship…"

"Don't send Will," Arthur advised cheerfully.

Guinevere was poking his ribs to get his attention. "If this is goodbye, you need to tell him what we agreed on…"

"I'll have it sent," Merlin promised, turning back to them. "Only – probably they're all waiting on me, so…" He heaved himself up on the side to shake each man's hand and exchange a farewell, enduring the teasing as it was intended – heartfelt gladness at their friend's happiness.

"We didn't bring you a gift," Arthur said deliberately, when Merlin turned back to them.

"It's all right – I'm not one for jewelry anyway." That grin was positively irrepressible; Arthur was going to miss him all over again.

"Except to say, we would truly be honored… if it can be worked out…"

Guinevere was pinching him again, and Merlin giving him a puzzled look. Gwaine said, "Spit it out, sire."

"If _you_ might come to _our_ wedding," Arthur finished. "It'll be a fortnight after midsummer, or so. But of course we'd want you to stay longer. Have a look around our kingdom, maybe." Merlin's look hadn't changed, as if he didn't yet fully comprehend the invitation. Or was shocked by its implications, maybe. "Of course every man here would swear your safety, and you could remain entirely anonymous, and any conditions you or your father might request would be met absolutely, but –"

"You want me at your wedding?" Merlin said, still a bit incredulous. "That would be –"

"Unprecedented," Leon suggested.

"Risky," Lancelot allowed.

Gwaine said with an impish grin, "Great fun."

Arthur could tell at a glance which one Merlin agreed with. Guinevere said, "So you'll think about it, at least?"

"If I can come," Merlin said. "I'll come." He reached past Arthur's hand to clasp his forearm; Arthur unhesitatingly did the same. "You know, this is the best gift you could possibly have given me."

Arthur shoved against him gently. "Go on to your wife."

Merlin's grin could not possibly have gotten any wider, but it seemed to. He gave them a final nod, turned and flipped down into the water. But didn't stay there – dolphin-like, he propelled himself to breach the surface twice more in the sheer joy of living that put a smile on all their faces.

"I hope he comes," Guinevere said.

"Merlin Emrys in Camelot, can you imagine," Gwaine said to Percival.

Arthur grunted. "Heaven help us all."

 **A/N: A bit late, but also a bit long! And, that's it for this one. Thanks again for all your support, and especially those who gave me advice for that quote from 'Le Morte D'Arthur'.**

 **Um… sequel. Lots of you all asked, and it sparked a dim notion of a 'what-if', but. I would prefer to write the stories I had put in my profile poll first. And, next month is NaNoWriMo. So, I can't promise anything, but maybe after the first of the year?... I did rather set the epilogue up to be able to write another, but not really** _ **have to**_ **.**

 **I'll be turning my creative attention to** _ **Angel**_ **next; however, that's one I have to write out before posting anything, b/c of the format I want to use… so, I will be posting other bits and pieces until** _ **Angel**_ **is done (hopefully before NaNo starts), and then post that one while I'm writing my original… My plan is to have at least a chapter a week of something, now through November. Here's hoping!**


	10. Part 2: Heir of Aetlantys

**Part II: Heir of Aetlantys**

 **Chapter 1: Anticipation**

The kiss tasted salty to Merlin, as it never did when he wore the scales and fins of Dyn-emris, prince of the sea.

" _I'm going to miss you_ ," Freya whispered against his mouth.

He drew back minimally, to keep their foreheads touching, and threaded his fingers into her hair. Waves and sunlight crashed all around them, and the cries of gulls mingled with the approaching hail of seamen.

" _It won't be long_ ," he promised her breathlessly, kicking to stay afloat while she gave a single graceful flick of her tail, effortlessly accomplishing what he had to work for.

His wife wrapped her fingers around his wrists, dark purple scales and long pointed nails a contrast against his ridiculously pale human skin. " _How long_?"

" _Love, you know I can't tell you what I don't know_ ," he repeated patiently, tilting her head to kiss her nose – and blinking as a wave slapped his face. " _There could be delays – in traveling, in the wedding itself, and Arthur might ask me to stay on_ …"

She nodded in his grasp, and twined her tail-fin around his right leg, silky brush against bare human ankle and foot. " _Just be careful_ ," she said. " _You know we'll all worry_."

The ship was so close he could hear the snap of sailcloth behind him. A moment more and he might even pick out the captain's familiar voice. " _I will be, I promise_."

" _Well_ ," she said, with more spirit, pulling back to look him in the eye. " _Will has sworn to learn the magic necessary to come after you – or avenge you, if need be. And that'll probably start a war, you know._ "

He grinned back. " _If the pennant is blue_ ," he reminded her. Now he could hear Lancelot, faintly calling his name in greeting.

" _It means there's a message_ ," she finished, and leaned forward to kiss his lips lightly once again. " _You owe me a trip to the hot springs, when you get back_."

" _In that case, I'll hurry_." She laughed and released him in preparation to dive down, backwards over her own shoulder in a graceful curve, and he ducked down to call after her underwater, " _I love you_!"

She twisted to wave, and then her purple form disappeared down to the depths again, back to the city and the family and friends he'd taken leave of before transforming and dressing.

Surfacing with a gasp and twisting in the water, he began to swim toward the port side of the ship looming over him, where a rope ladder slapped and twined against the hull. He grimaced to himself at the odd feeling of water between his fingers, where webbing should have been. Well. Small price to pay to see Arthur again. To walk in his world and see its wonders.

Lancelot was waiting at the top of the rope ladder, one eye on his men scrambling on deck and in the rigging to adjust course and speed now that they had their expected passenger, and one on Merlin scrambling over the gunnel.

"Merlin," he said cheerfully, sideways. "Welcome aboard. Blankets and dry clothes in my cabin."

That was routine; Merlin had shared quarters with Lancelot on a handful of previous voyages in the two and almost a half years of their acquaintance. "Thanks, but–"

"Two days til we're in port," Lancelot continued. "I was told Percival and Gwaine would meet you – don't let him get you into a dockside tavern before you ride for Camelot, make him wait to take you til you get there. I prefer riding a deck, myself, to a horse's saddle, but it's probably going to be difficult enough doing it for the first time, without adding a hangover to the experience."

When Merlin didn't move, Lancelot glanced more fully at him – then down at his human shirt and trousers in surprise, flapping already dry in the midsummer breeze and the motion of the ship.

"A new trick I learned," Merlin confessed. "It's air and water magic together, but-" he gestured – "dry clothes on the instant, almost."

"Very handy, that." Lancelot's dark eyes gleamed in amusement, before a thought occurred to him, and merriment gave way to caution. "Merlin – you do remember, best not to do magic in public, in Camelot?"

"Yeah, yeah." Merlin clutched at the gunnel at an unexpected rough swell, and waved his free hand expressively. "Don't draw attention, people will ask unnecessary questions. Have you got the books I asked for?" That was also routine; Merlin had been a quick student and an avid reader, and devoured information about the human world whenever Lancelot voyaged in the direction of Aetlantys and Merlin could spare a few days to ride the decks rather than the sea-swells themselves.

"I have a few new ones," Lancelot said. "In the cabin. Ones with illustrations, and the one-"

"On court protocol?" Merlin said hopefully, and the dark-haired ship's-captain nodded. "D'you mind if I read them out here? If they get wet, I'm sure I can –" he gestured to indicate the fine control necessary to dry his clothes.

"Of course not!" Lancelot returned. "Who could stay inside on a day like this? Bring them up to the quarterdeck – I'm going to take the wheel, and you can ask me questions if you have any."

"Perfect," Merlin agreed, and lurched his way across the deck toward the captain's cabin. Better than he used to be, but every time it took him a while to get used to legs, again.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur spent the better part of an hour, searching for Sir Leon. He might have been successful, eventually, if it wasn't for the interruptions that leached his patience, every one.

"Oh! My lord, after that rainstorm last night we discovered a leak by one of the windows in the chamber Lady Guinevere used last time – is it quite all right to move the furnishings to the far east room instead?"

"Ah, Prince Arthur, just who I was looking for. You wouldn't happen to know which flowers your betrothed favors, would you? We're just decorating –"

"M'lord, I've moved your horses and cleaned your personal stable, but if my lady's party brings more than half a dozen we'll have to –"

"Sire, are you aware of any flavorings your lady bride is particularly averse to? or fond of?"

Arthur ground his teeth together, both to drown out the questions, complaints, and even more innocent congratulations of, it seemed, every single citizen of Camelot, and to keep his mouth from opening in a great shout of frustration.

He was meant to be jolly, these days, anticipating his wedding. And he would be, if Guinevere was here, rather than anticipated. He might be, if Gwaine and Percival were here and could give him a couple of rounds of satisfyingly exhaustive sparring. But if they were here, then Merlin would be here, and that…

Arthur turned so abruptly he almost upset a young girl carrying a stack of linens that nearly obscured her view, and had to steady her with an apologetic hand and smile.

Not a growl, like he felt. He waited til he was alone in his room, for that. And a good kick of the nearest leg of his chair, when it got in his way. But it was heavy, and caught the toe of his boot, and he flailed the rest of his way to the window, grasping the casement for balance and support. For a moment he stood and breathed, and gripped the stone.

In doing what felt right, in asking for what he wanted, he was afraid he'd made a very great mistake. One which had no solution, now.

He wondered if that had occurred to Guinevere, too. He hadn't spoken to her since the beginning of summer, when she'd returned to her father's holdings in the south to prepare for marriage and a permanent move to Camelot.

 _Merlin Emrys in Camelot_ , he'd said, just after issuing an invitation that had surprised and pleased the young mer-man, on his own wedding day. _Heaven help us all._

Arthur never would get to explore Merlin's kingdom. He wasn't sure he was _very_ disappointed by that, but the alternative had seemed a grand idea, then and now. Spending days upon days with his unusual friend, introducing him to the land's flora and fauna, showing him the citadel and the kingdom, talking and relaxing, and neither of them worried or stressed about physical changes or new magic or a great hulking sea-beast who'd swallow them as soon as look at them. Another prince who was entirely unpretentious, yet intelligent and thoughtful.

Except. Arthur had not anticipated his father's guest list, or the necessarily heightened security measures. Geoffrey had taken on an assistant, in preparation to substantiate each visitor's claim to nobility, and right to be present. No strangers. No exceptions.

Gwaine had suggested forgery. Leon was not convinced any of them were good enough to fool the old genealogist, even with Arthur's verbal corroboration of recognition. A prince from the Western Isles. Well, what about a lord's son? A lord's bastard son, unrecognized officially?

Arthur was not convinced Merlin would appreciate that.

And, he no longer anticipated that he would be allowed the sort of leisure time he'd pictured – an overnight trip to the mountains, a day spent wandering fields and meadows. A hunt, maybe. In reality, he'd probably be pulling his hair out, stuck entertaining one or another – or several at a time – of their royal guests.

A deferential double-knock sounded, and the great paneled door of his bedchamber creaked on its hinges.

"No!" he barked without looking, assuming one of the servants had tracked him down for yet another question. "Find someone else to ask. I've decided not to make any more decisions – go away."

"No more decisions at all?" It was Leon's voice, mildly ironic; the knight wore a sympathetic smirk when Arthur straightened and turned in surprise.

Arthur heaved an exaggerated sigh of aggravation. "At least until tomorrow. Sorry, Leon, I thought you were – someone else."

"Your father sent me to –"

Arthur remembered why he'd been looking for this knight in particular, earlier, and snapped his fingers before pointing at Leon – who shifted to an attentive pose, left hand negligently-alert on the hilt of the sword in his belt. "Two things I wanted to speak to you about – first, has there been any word from Sir Gosyn?"

The knight of about Leon's age – which was to say, several years older than Arthur – was originally from Summarlynd, his future father-in-law's estate. He'd been chosen to return to his childhood home, leading the escort for the prince's bride. And as senior knight, Leon would receive the message first as a matter of course, to pass on to Arthur.

"Not yet," Leon said. "But there's no need to worry, not for at least two more days. The rains –"

"Yes, yes, might have slowed them up." Arthur sighed and rubbed first one eye, then the other – then turned to begin a slow, measured pace. "I should have thought of that." He grunted in dissatisfaction at his own distracted state of mind, and the weather. "The other thing is – what are we going to do about Merlin? They could be back tomorrow, if not later today…"

"Oh, I have thought of something there," Leon said, expression and bearing relaxing. "Gaius mentioned to me just this morning, his apprentice is taking rooms in the lower town – to be closer to the patients, was the reason she gave, but Gaius thinks a certain young man –" Leon caught Arthur's flicker of impatience before he could, and hastened, "In any case, that apprentice's room is vacant."

"We're not going to be able to claim that Merlin knows anything about healing or herbs," Arthur growled, kicking at the edge of the rug. "I don't see how –"

"No, I thought – perhaps Gaius could claim him as a visiting nephew or something." Arthur quirked an incredulous eyebrow, and Leon reconsidered. "Great-nephew, then, maybe. Neither your father nor Geoffrey will question Gaius, and no one else will take any notice of Merlin, but he won't be expected to have duties, either."

Leon's satisfied smile provoked a grudging acceptance from Arthur. He conceded, "If it doesn't offend Merlin…"

Hopefully it wouldn't. Arthur had no idea of the sleeping accommodations in Aetlantys, though the apprentice's room off the physician's chambers was twice as large and at least as comfortable as the captain's cabin of the Medusa. And he didn't think Merlin was the sort to snoop the other guests' chambers to compare.

Leon began again, tentative but resolute. "Your father sent me –" Arthur rolled his eyes, but nodded and gestured for Leon to finish – "to request that you attend upon him in the reception hall. Bayard of Mercia and his retinue have been sighted on the north road."

Arthur sighed and stood still, his eyes on the toes of his boots. "Sometimes, Leon," he said, "I wish I was not a prince."

But he was. He picked up his crimson ceremonial cloak from where it was draped over the back of the chair, swirled it around his shoulders, fastened the pins. As he passed Leon in the doorway, the knight leaned over to snag the prince's circlet from its cushion on the sideboard by the door. Leon dangled the ornament Arthur usually chose to forget, offering it on one finger as they started down the corridor. Arthur snatched it ungratefully, and Leon clapped Arthur's shoulder, then left his hand there long enough for a brief supportive squeeze.

"It'll be over soon enough," he said. "And you'll have your lady bride as compensation for all this fuss."

Arthur darted a suspicious sideways glance, but couldn't find any teasing in his knight's expression. A good deal too much innocence, though.

He straightened his circlet over his hair, and his shoulders. Dropping his left hand to rest on his own sword-hilt, he adopted a stride that would make the most of the excess material of his cloak.

As always. For the love of Camelot.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

As he clambered up from the long-boat and gained his feet, Merlin was not prepared for the way the dock swung and bobbed alarmingly under the soles of the new boots sent by Arthur.

It took his gaze immediately away from the rows of peaked harbor rooftops and the tantalizing glimpse of human life and industry between them. And if not for Lancelot's timely and strategically placed hand on his elbow, he might have toppled right into the shallows. Then, he'd have faced not only the snickers of the rowers, but the decision to remain wet for hours… or risk using magic to dry himself again, contrary to his friend's recommendation, and Arthur's wishes.

"Whoa, steady there," Lancelot said, as Merlin gripped his sleeve in return and sought balance – caught at it – only to lose it again.

"I didn't know the land – moved," Merlin gasped, tottering at his friend's side, even though they moved forward slowly. At one step the plank walkway to the shore appeared to rise to meet his foot too soon; at the next it dropped away abruptly. And tilted unexpected sideways.

"It doesn't," Lancelot assured him. "You've just got to find your land-legs."

Merlin tipped to the right as he tried to look at the captain, instead of his footing. Dismayed, he said, "You mean these aren't good enough?"

"No, it's – just a figure of speech," Lancelot reassured him. "It takes a while for a man to get used to the movement of a sailing ship's deck, but once he is, it takes a bit to get used to solid land, again."

Merlin tried to remember how long it had taken him to be able to stumble across the Medusa's deck without falling, and felt queasy. Just think if he had to lurch through Arthur's palace like this – ridiculous!

"There's Percival and Gwaine," Lancelot added.

Merlin looked up from his big clumsy boots to see his two friends, a bit more formal than the sailors, with shirts closed at the neck, and buttoned vests – but not yet the armor and cloaks Lancelot had described as habitual for knights on land. Percival waited with his feet apart and his big arms crossed over his chest, but Gwaine started down the dock toward them, roguish grin wide.

"I am so glad you're here!" he said – and Merlin was privately pleased that he chose an embrace over a shoulder punch for greeting. It steadied him, rather than knocking him over. "We're going to have such fun!"

"No taverns," Lancelot said, extending his hand, which Gwaine took in unhesitating greeting.

"Fine. For now, we'll give the ale a pass," Gwaine agreed. "I want to see Merlin's reactions to everything dead sober, anyway – Arthur is going to be sorry he missed this! Oh, he told me to tell you welcome, and he wished he could be here, but-"

"It's all right, I understand," Merlin said, though he was sorry to have to wait to see Arthur, too. The sand swayed gently as he stepped off the boards – distracting, but no longer threatening to tip him onto his face.

"Welcome to Camelot, Merlin," Percival said, clouting Merlin's shoulder. But since the big knight had taken Merlin's hand with his other, he managed to stay upright just fine.

"Thanks," he said. "It's a bit…"

"Scary?" Gwaine teased.

"Overwhelming," Lancelot suggested.

"Exciting!" Merlin said with a grin. "I've done hot and bright already, I've lain on beaches before, and I've seen inland trees, but not up close."

"Sounds like you're ready to go," Percival commented, eyes twinkling.

"How about horses?" Gwaine said. "We've left ours in a stable on the other side of town – if you're eager to get to Camelot, we can put a few hours behind us and make camp in the forest for the night?"

"Oh, yes, please," Merlin said. His insides fluttered like an agitated school of fish to think of leaving the coast and the sea behind him, but probably one human house was as like to another as the habitations of Aetlantys – and maybe not that much different than the captain's cabin aboard-ship – but the palace would of course be more magnificent than all. He'd rather get a little closer to that, and spend his first night immersed in land-nature.

"I'll leave you here, then," Lancelot said. "I should tend to my cargo and crew. I'll see you in –"

"Three weeks?" Gwaine said into his pause. "That's what Arthur suggested."

All three men looked at him, and Merlin did his best to hide the pang of uncertainty. Five days, was the longest he'd ever gone as a human. And three weeks… he'd have to stay three weeks with Freya at the hot springs, to make up for it. He opened his mouth and said, "Sure."

"I'm rarely out of port for longer than four days, give or take," Lancelot said. "If you're here and I'm not –"

"We'll wait for you in the tavern," Gwaine concluded, and Lancelot shoved him.

"Thank you for everything," Merlin told Lancelot. "I'll see you then."

"You boys take care of my friend!" Lancelot called after them, as they started up the last rise of open ground before the buildings of town. Gwaine waved to show they'd heard.

The sand that occupied more of Merlin's attention was not much easier to navigate wading with two feet, rather than crawling on two hands. But then he was stooping down to the fringe of greenery, low on the sand and shivering in the wind like stunted kelp during tide-change. _Grass_. He knew the words for many things the land had that the sea did not, thanks to Lancelot and his books, but –

"It's hard," he exclaimed, brushing his hands over a wide swatch, then pinching individual blades. "It's crisp."

"Yep," Gwaine agreed. "Only – stand up, Merlin – if you keep doing stuff like that where strangers can see you, they're going to think you're -

"Simple," Percival interrupted, obligingly steadying Merlin as he obeyed Gwaine, and the horizon tilted briefly.

"Crazy," Gwaine said, bluntly but with a grin.

"Okay," Merlin said, unoffended. "Look but don't touch."

A sudden noise distracted him, like that of an irritated seal, and he dodged to see around Percival's bulk. There was an animal by the corner of the nearest structure, tied in place by a rope collar around its neck. Something like a long-nosed, _very_ long-legged otter, and he was moving before he thought twice.

"Is this a dog?" he asked delightedly, forgetting _look but don't touch_ , and reaching his hand forward.

"Yes, but –" Gwaine caught his sleeve firmly, and he straightened. "When they do that –" the knight bared his own teeth, and curled his fingers alongside his face like claws. "When they do that, it means, _go away_."

Merlin made a mournful noise, and clicked his tongue, reading both excitement and wariness in the dog's movements and teeth. "I bet I could change his mind."

Grinning, Percival looked at Gwaine, who threw his head back to guffaw out loud. "Yeah, mate, I wouldn't bet against you there. But how about you wait til you can get to know Arthur's hounds, instead?"

Arthur had dogs! Of course the human prince would have everything. Merlin was even more impatient now, following the other two down the passage between that building and the next.

Wood he knew, from the ship's construction. And stone, of course. Even the glass of the windows was not unfamiliar – but these were so much larger than the few portholes of the _Medusa_!

"Not polite to look inside the houses," Percival murmured, as they walked – slowly, for the sake of Merlin's recovering equilibrium.

"But look all you like through the shop-windows," Gwaine said at his other side.

Merlin refrained from asking, how was he supposed to know which was which until _after_ he'd looked – and then they came out onto the main street.

Streets, Lancelot had explained. Purpose and use and composition, and Aetlantys still had avenues between the structures of the sunken city. But _this_ … So many people, going so fast, yet avoiding each other as gracefully as a school of swimming –

To his left, a man with a long-handled tool over his shoulder bumped someone else with a tray – a woman! Women all over, in skirts and so colorful! – Whatever she'd been carrying scattered over paving stones like oyster-shells, and she turned on the man shrill and red, fists on her hips.

Not so graceful, then. And –

 _Whoosh_.

Something passed him, large and fast and close enough to have him stumbling back into Percival. A series of impressions –

Deep snort. Flying dark hair. _Clip-clop_ , a sound almost like stone striking stone – glossy dark hide gleaming like wet seal-skin – more flying hair. Then a wooden contraption – he'd learned about _wheels_ \- and a man sitting hunched and bored with long leather straps in his hands and–

Then it was past.

"Horse and cart," Gwaine said laconically in his ear, and he gulped to begin breathing again.

It was like – seeing his first mother humpback, newborn calf by her side. The herders calling softly, wordlessly, to calm and reassure, so he could drift closer.

And, oh – there were more!

The two knights kept him between them as they threaded their way along the street between the houses – or shops, he still couldn't tell the difference – more than once keeping him from tripping. He wondered briefly if anyone would look at him the way the sailors sometimes did, as if they still saw scales and gills, but everyone was busy, intent on their own tasks. He tried to take in everything around – the handcarts, the unique burdens people carried, the differences in height and weight, the children! just like tiny adults, it was amazing! Inside the windows, in case they were shops like Gwaine had said but they were walking too fast for him to begin to identify the human objects made and traded.

After a few moments, someone bumped him, in passing. He flinched back, but couldn't even tell, in the crowd, who it had been. "Oh, sorry!"

Looking down to avoid treading on Gwaine's heels again, someone else bumped him from the other direction. In glancing back to try to apologize again for his fault of inattention, he saw Percival roll his wide shoulders, amiably absorbing the same sort of jostling. The mer-people avoided actual contact in slipping past each other even in crowded places, but he supposed humans didn't notice or mind in the thinner air, and he tried to mimic his friend's unconcern.

Then they came to a break in the row of wooden buildings, where another street met and passed the one they were on, and it was four directions – people coming, going, crossing. Gwaine gave him an assessing glance over his shoulder – and again, a moment later.

Then, "You all right, Merlin?"

"Fine, why?" he said breathlessly. Sounds caught at his ears, distracting him with the conviction that each was intended for him to notice, to respond to. It was confusing.

"You keep –" Gwaine gestured, unintentionally whacking a woman who snapped something that the knight ignored. "Up on your toes, like."

Merlin took notice of his body – hands together in front of his chest as if he could cleave the crowd before him like a wave of water, making a clear sweeping stroke forward. And yes, bouncing up on his toes. He looked above the bobbing heads, the higher horses and drivers and riders, even the upper-levels of the buildings. "I keep wanting to – swim up there, where it's clear."

"Oh." Gwaine's unshaven chin lifted as he gave a chuckle Merlin didn't hear.

Percival glanced around them thoughtfully, then nudged his elbow to lead him a different way. Merlin followed willingly; there were fewer windows, but also fewer people. Fewer horses…

"Too much for you?" Percival asked, after a moment, when they could walk beside each other, and not worry about bumping or brushing strangers.

"No, just different," Merlin said, though it did feel like he could breathe more easily here. His home-city had roads, avenues between the structures where people lived, but there were hundreds of fathoms to travel in. A flick of the tail, and he'd be up and over these roofs, with room to spread his arms and feel the cool liquid slide over his scales, and reaching his destination in no time.

"Here, this way," Gwaine said, stopping and turning so abruptly Merlin stumbled a bit trying to follow him. "Not as straight as the crow flies – or the mer-man swims – but the shortest distance between two points…"

"Gwaine, not through the –"

"What?" Merlin asked, following Gwaine, before a stench assailed him that made his eyes water, and turned the knight into a moving blur. " _Oh_."

"Never mind, just hurry," Gwaine said. "And don't look down."

Merlin obeyed, blinking to clear his vision, though he was only partially successful. That was another thing different about up here – the sense of smell. Not subtle and dispersed, odors seemed to wait til a person was close, then slam strongly and unceremoniously into them.

"How do your people deal with waste, anyway?" Gwaine asked.

Merlin had identified at least one component of the stench, with which he was familiar. "You mean like, where do we dump the fish guts?" Even in the blur of his face, Gwaine's grin was obvious. Both knights had probably at least sampled the delicacies delivered to the ship after Merlin and Freya's wedding; they'd know the mer-folk did clean and prepare their food. "We use sealed containers, then it's taken out past the settlements where the currents will carry it out to decompose properly."

"Huh," Gwaine said. "Wish we had a system like that, here."

Merlin didn't want either of his friends to feel like he was being critical. "Perhaps you would," he offered, "if your rubbish heaps had a tendency to float up into your face." Both men shouted out loud with laughter.

"By damn, I'm glad to have you here," Gwaine said, coming to a stop and looking back over his shoulder.

Over _his_ , Merlin saw that they were at the edge of the port-town – beyond were the shades of green and brown of an inland wood like he'd seen from a distance. He kept walking past Gwaine, eager to examine and explore.

"I'll get the horses," Percival told Gwaine, who grunted agreement and lengthened his stride to come into Merlin's side-vision.

"Want to race?" he proposed with a roguish grin.

Merlin paused to give him a questioning look. They were still a fair few ships'-lengths from the first trees, was there a faster way to get there?

"Run, like those children in town." Gwaine set one foot forward of the other, bending his knees to sink into an intent crouch. "Oh, you've never _run_ before, have you? It's like walking, except you go as fast as you can – don't wait for your forward foot to land before you push off with your back one. Like this." He leaped forward, hesitated on one foot, then leaped again – then returned to Merlin's side. "Want to try?"

"Absolutely." Merlin's pulse had quickened already; he felt his own grin stretch his face. "Like this?" He placed his feet like Gwaine's, bent his foolish knobby human knees – necessary, of course, for this activity, too.

"Come on!" Gwaine jogged away, watching him.

Merlin felt briefly ridiculous, but when his balance adjusted, he didn't need to pause to think about each leg separately – swinging forward, planting, pushing back. It was incredible – though he knew Gwaine was holding back for his sake – the pounding of each step reverberated through thick, hardy human bones, the air chugged in and out of his lungs, and – they were at the trees.

Gwaine stopped to catch his breath, one hand on a tree and the other on his knee. "Not bad for your first time."

Merlin couldn't speak around his panting; wobbly legs and blood thundering in his ears almost distracted him from his first tree. Tentatively he brushed the trunk with his fingertips, as his breathing slowed.

It was rough, the outer layer growing in vertical striations, and _warm_. It spread at the base to enter the ground, and he remembered that the root system spreading through the earth would look quite like the complication above his head. Higher than he could reach, the trunk split into the lowest limb. And again, and again – more than he could count, more than he could follow, all obscured with leaves – that shivered and rustled in a breeze like a floating mat of seaweed in the wake of a ship or whale. He flinched in reaction, but each one held tight to its twig.

"It's stunning," he told Gwaine. "It's amazing."

"It's an oak," Gwaine said, amused but not at Merlin's expense. "Common as they come."

"I'm not hurting it, am I?" Merlin asked, pressing his palm into the trunk, rubbing down a few inches and back up. It was like coral, but _soft_ and living.

" 'Course not. You could climb it if you liked… but, ah, I wouldn't recommend it for you right away." Merlin glanced over at him, eyebrow quirked in question. "No offense, mate, but you're clumsy as a human and we can't have a visiting prince getting hurt on our watch, can we?"

"I will do, before I leave," Merlin warned him, turning his attention back to the tree. "Climb trees, I mean, not hurt myself." He could sense it faintly through his earth affinity, not the same as rock or dirt, but still there. "Is this one of the kind that loses its leaves?"

"Yeah, in autumn. Those over there –" Merlin followed the knight's pointing finger to a pair of smaller, more compact trees, darker and spiky-looking – "those are evergreens. That bush, too, I think that's holly."

All the bushes looked the same to Merlin, but he didn't say. The vegetation undersea was widely varied; of course it would be the same here. It would just take some time to get used to.

"This is only your first visit, right? You'll have to come again some year when the leaves are red and orange and yellow and all falling down. Here." Merlin turned as Gwaine tossed him a small object, like smooth brown pebble with a cap of gravelly-mud, stuck fast. "That's an acorn. An early one, maybe a squirrel dropped it."

Merlin looked up, memory sparking, but couldn't detect any small animals or birds overhead. "This is a seed, isn't it?"

Gwaine hummed confirmation. "One of these giants grows from one of those little buggers. One out of about a million. Did Lancelot teach you about that? You don't really have seeds under the water, do you?"

Merlin looked back at him to answer - and completely forgot even the question.

Percival was approaching at an easy saunter, and he had the straps – _reins_ – of three horses loosely in his hand. All were dark brown, variations of coloring that Merlin couldn't have verbally identified. The big knight grinned at Merlin and called, "We've got an old mare for you, should be nice and gentle for a first-time rider."

Merlin moved to meet them, noting the way they noticed and watched him. Slow he moved, and with his hands out and empty, and Percival let the reins drop to give him time and space. The three stood and contemplated him, turning their heads, reaching out with tentative noses, whuffling to each other.

"Oh, you're _gorgeous_ ," Merlin said aloud, as Gwaine retrieved the reins of the one on the right, swung smoothly up astride.

His mount seemed to mind the knight's contact and control not at all; ears that were long and curled and had a tuft of hair at the tip swiveled back, then forward to Merlin again. He reached to touch the gleaming arched neck of that one, then for comparison's sake, the one in the middle. The hairs were stiff and straight and short and lay close to the warm flesh, but the effect was glossy-soft as Merlin stroked downward. The third nudged the middle one insistently – its head bobbed up to allow the other to investigate Merlin's shoulder with the long nose, and he turned his attention back.

"Gorgeous," he breathed again, taking in the horses' deep steady breathing, the shifting of weight on four legs – four? how did they manage? – the saddles and stirrups that Lancelot had described and explained. The ridge and bunch of muscle in the chest and shoulders, the angular skeletal structure so different from the sleek lines of sea-creatures – the slanted hard hooves in the dust.

Air puffed over his neck and cheek, and he turned his head to see that Gwaine's horse was nosing him just as the old mare did – Percival's back-stepped briefly as the big man mounted, fast and easy and comfortable – but still within reach of Merlin's arm. Oh, they were _tall_. Bright liquid eyes, pink-tinged nostrils snuffling him.

"And clever, too, aren't you," he crooned, daring to lean lightly against the curve of the mare's neck, stretch his fingers to the incredible softness of the nose of Gwaine's mount.

Percival gave Gwaine a little-boy grin and commented, "By the time we get to Camelot, our horses are going to like him better than us."

With a laugh in his voice, Gwaine said, "You'll want to mount from the other side, Merlin."

 **A/N: I hope no one is too disappointed in this sequel, as it takes place on land… I'm also not introducing any new canon characters, btw, all baddies are new baddies.**

 **Next chapter: more Merlin's-first-time-on-land fun, and the reunion of the two princes!**


	11. Reality

**Heir of Aetlantys**

 **Chapter 2: Reality**

Merlin was too embarrassed to say, can we stop. But never had the sun taken so long to kiss the horizon.

He'd been watching its progression, through the mottling of leaves overhead, shifting his position in an unsuccessful attempt to ease sore muscles and bones, when the other two weren't paying attention to him. Which was seldom; they were very good at pointing out items of interest, telling stories or jokes or offering explanations before he even asked. He remembered that had been characteristic of Gwaine.

By the time the two had found some bit of the trail they followed – invisible to him, though they were sure of it – better for a night-camp than the rest, Merlin had decided, he loved horses.

But, he hated saddles.

"Bit stiff?" Percival inquired solicitously, swinging down as easily as he'd mounted.

Merlin tried to gather and loop his reins like the big man had done. "Maybe a little," he allowed.

His left leg did not want to push him high enough in the stirrup to pull his right over the back of the saddle, so he settled for leaning backward and bending his knee, yanking it up over the front of the saddle with the help of his hands. Not even caring that he must look awkward and ignorant. He kicked free of the stirrup – at least the mare didn't protest – and prepared to slide down.

Gwaine, dismounted to the other side of his own horse, said, "Oh, no, don't – you might not –"

Merlin's feet hit the ground and his knees buckled unceremoniously, dumping him in a heap on his backside, legs folded beneath him. Gwaine's horse tilted an eye at him, and he groaned. "Do not laugh at me, please."

"Merlin, my friend…" Gwaine remained out of sight beyond his mount, hands busy with the straps and buckles and bundles of his saddle. "I am thinking of the ducking you gave me, two years ago. And not laughing." His voice sounded like he was grinning, however, Merlin thought. "Percival's laughing, though."

"I am not." The big knight came around the hindquarters of Merlin's mare, slapping her flank gently before reaching down to help Merlin pick himself up. "The first time I was in the saddle three hours straight, I _cried_ when I dismounted."

Merlin found it hard to straighten his spine and his knees – damn them – and the ground wanted to roll like it had when he'd gotten off the ship.

"Percival, you've never cried," Gwaine teased.

"Not in front of you," Percival returned, gesturing for Merlin to move away from the horses; he began to hobble obediently. "But I cry all the time, otherwise. I'm a very sensitive fellow. The ladies love it."

Gwaine made a rude noise, and Percival smiled at Merlin, hand gentle at his elbow, as he motioned for him to lower himself to the ground on a gradual rise of grass.

"How old were you?" Merlin said, easing down. "That time you cried."

The scar over Percival's eye deepened with his grin. "Five years old." Merlin scoffed, mostly at himself, and the big knight said unselfconsciously, "You've done really well today, your highness, just rest now while Gwaine and I set up camp."

Only because he would have no idea where to start, and probably would get in the way or delay them, even if he wasn't so sore that moving was a highly disagreeable notion. He eased back to his elbows, sighing, "Only if you _promise_ , no titles."

"Well. Catch us offering for Arthur to sit while we work," Gwaine quipped as he dumped his saddle near Merlin's right boot.

" _He_ cried the first time he sat a saddle for three hours," Percival said from his place by the old mare. Merlin couldn't help snickering, knowing the close bond these two knights had with their price, and that Arthur would face the same ribbing if he was present.

"Yeah, but he was probably all of two years old at the time," Gwaine added over his shoulder, "knowing his father."

The two kept up their conversation, tending to the horses. Merlin's mind drifted, contemplating Arthur's father – the human king, but not the only one, evidently. _Be respectful_ , Percival had said. Gwaine's advice was, _Keep your distance_.

He rolled stiffly – to his side, to his belly – admiring again the crisp cool feeling of the grass. The sun was setting, but as it passed beyond the canopy of leaves above, the light was briefly brighter as it shone nearly horizontal between the trunks of the wood.

So many trees. He couldn't see much farther than he could hurl a stone with all his strength. It felt odd, in the thinness of the air; at sea he could see for _leagues_. Granted, in the dimmer depths, he'd not see even this far, this clearly, but the movement of the water told his nerve endings everything he needed to know about his surroundings. Here, he felt the air move, but it told him little beyond his five ordinary senses.

Something tickled his hand, and he looked down. _Insect_ , was the best word he could come up with; it was very tiny, no more than a crumb of earth. He turned his hand, and smiled as the tiny thing skittered around the base of his thumb. Another tickle alerted him to a second, traveling the back of his knuckles.

"What've you got there?" Gwaine asked casually.

"Insects," Merlin answered, bringing it closer to his eyes to examine it better.

"Some of them bite, you'll want to be careful," Gwaine said, stepping closer by the sound of his voice and footfalls. "Oh, those are ants, they're fine."

"Sometimes you can do this with the tiniest crabs," Merlin said. "The baby turtles when they hatch and come down the sand. There's places where the seaweed is tall and the water is clear, where seahorses hold on with their tails in the current, and you can get really close and just watch."

After a moment, Percival suggested from further away, "Find a rock and turn it over."

"And then chuck it down there." Gwaine retreated, and Merlin rolled to sit up properly again, though leaning more comfortably back on his hips. "We can use it for the fire-pit."

Percival already had a couple of stones, fist-size and bigger, so Merlin knew the other knight wasn't teasing. And that was probably a good way for him to help. With his hands on the earth, he could tell where there were several more stones of like size, half-buried, and he set himself to retrieving them. However, as Percival's suggestion proved accurate, Merlin had to spend several moments brushing off various odd-looking little critters, back into their earthy home, before bringing the stone to Percival.

Dry twigs and broken branches had been gathered and formed, like the kindling that lit the galley stove on the Medusa. The circle of rocks would act like the metal walls of that oven, stop the fire that always wanted to spread, like water seeking its level.

"We won't need it for heat," Gwaine remarked, kneeling to rummage among the bundles of their saddles. "Nor for cooking – we're traveling with the same sort of food you've eaten on-board ship. But a camp needs a cheerful friendly campfire, especially as it's your first… Where _did_ you pack that flint, Percival?"

"You packed it last, if you recall," Percival answered, pressing the last stone into place.

"I can light it?" Merlin offered. "If you'd like?"

Gwaine twisted to look at him, and Percival exchanged a glance with him before nodding agreement and encouragement. Merlin took a deep breath - felt for the spark in his heart, in the center of his chest – drew it forth, flung it into the center of the waiting kindling. It sparked into flame with a muffled whooshing sound, and Merlin couldn't help a grin of delighted satisfaction.

"Do not forget to pack him, in the morning," Gwaine ordered Percival jokingly.

"It was you who forgot," Percival protested.

Gwaine began to argue back good-naturedly, interrupting himself to fling a rolled blanket to Merlin. "Find a place to spread your bedroll – not _too_ near those ants, either."

Ship's food. Hard bread and dried meat and a sweet, wrinkled apple, washed down with tasteless water. Merlin reclined on the blanket on the ground feeling sore and drowsy and happy. He'd never before realized the soporific effect of watching a fire burn down…

 _Hoo. Huhuhuhoooo_. Snap, flutter.

"Owl," Gwaine said from his own blanket, two paces to Merlin's right, anticipating his question. "They're worth looking at, if you ever find them in daylight, those big eyes – they're nocturnal, hunting now. They do that, to startle mice or rabbits into moving, then swoop down without a sound and –" The sudden screech startled Merlin upright and briefly awake, but the knights only looked around casually.

"He missed," Percival explained. "You ever hear an owl catch a rabbit, it'll sound ten times worse."

Merlin remembered rabbits from the books. "But they're always quiet, otherwise?"

"Most things are," Gwaine allowed – with his habitual grin, but still somehow quite serious – "until they're dying."

Merlin relaxed back. The gulls were always quite noisy, but… nothing in the ocean screamed like that. Sea-beasts died silent and grim.

"Get some sleep," Percival advised. "Tomorrow's apt to be busy."

He curled on his side, pillowing his head on his arm, and drifted to the sound of his friends' voices – discussing owls, he thought, at least initially. The random thought passed through his memory, that the kraken had not died silently…

Some time later, he woke to silence. To the orange glow of coals and the paler gleam of almost-full moonlight silvering the trees. The almost-silence of the scrape of invisible winged insects in the trees, and the rattle of breeze-bothered leaves, and – what sound had tickled his ears alert? – running water.

He pushed himself slowly to his feet, because it was faintly painful to move, and to keep from disturbing his companions – Percival on his back with his hand on the hilt of his sword, bared beside him; Gwaine sprawled on his side with the blade of his between his gloved palms. Merlin watched them a moment, disconcerted, then turned his attention outward. No sign of danger he could detect. Underwater they slept peacefully, content that no one and nothing could approach without sending ripples warning ahead.

Briefly he touched the hilt of his stone knife, snuggled against his ribs on his left side in the shoulder harness he wore under his shirt. It was more tool than weapon, in his world, and he wore it almost always, so he rarely even thought about it unless he needed it, but… Here that was obviously different as well. He'd have to keep reminding himself of that.

Merlin moved slowly as well, and carefully, toward the sound of the water. If there was any animal life around, he wanted to give warning as well as be able to receive it, to avoid confrontation or fright. Down a little ridge, out of the sight of the camp, and there it was. He stumbled a bit in an urgency that took him by surprise, falling to his knees to plunge his hands in halfway to his elbows.

Oh, it felt good. Silvery cool, surface trickling broken over stones and submerged roots. He dug his fingers into the muddy, sandy bottom, then lifted them to let the slight current clean his skin again.

He sighed, and wondered a bit at his relief – but then it seemed important that more of his body feel the water, too. Probably it would be a bit ridiculous to try to immerse himself in the tiny brooklet – his clothes would be wet unless he stripped, which did seem a bit extreme… Yanking off boots and socks, he thrust his feet, at least, into the stinging coolness.

Merlin greatly appreciated the clothes and boots Arthur had sent for him; of course they were necessary, though the prince didn't owe him _new_ ones. But on deck, he'd always gone barefoot like most of the sailors. And, aboard ship, he was always surrounded by the water. The sight, the smell, the sound… he _chose_ to stay on deck, when at any moment he could leap and dive and swim to the bottom, if he liked.

Now it hit him as it hadn't before, how he'd given up that choice.

Merlin shivered.

Then said out loud to himself, with heavy sarcasm, "Are you _homesick_ already?" No. Don't be silly.

But he couldn't help noticing the way the moonlight dappled the water before touching his feet, his hands as he bent his knees to his chest, and handled the water. Almost, he could see blue scales, and it calmed and quieted him…

" _He's here!_ Percival, he's just down by the stream _."_

Merlin awoke with a start, jerking upright into dawn sunlight and thin air and a green sky – oh wait no, that was the leaf canopy of the forest overhead. Disoriented, he straightened at the brook's edge – both pant-legs were soaked to the knee and his feet and left hand were chilly-numb, the human skin wrinkled from long submersion.

And Gwaine was jogging down to him, concern and amusement warring on his face.

"Sorry," Merlin blurted, trying to stand. But his feet were still in the brook, and the rest of him was stiff and sore; he only splashed and tumbled back down. "Sorry, I was just –" _homesick_? a little voice sniggered, and he ignored it – "thirsty, so I came down here and I –" Gwaine reached him and took hold of his arm for support, lifting and steadying him.

"Guess you fell asleep?" he said with humor. But there was sympathy in his dark eyes that made Merlin think, perhaps he understood a bit too much for comfort. "Here. Socks and boots." Merlin grimaced before he thought to hide the expression, and Gwaine guessed even more. "I bet you've got blisters, don't you? Don't worry, Gaius will have something for that, and your feet will toughen up in no time."

"Think of –" Percival stood at the top of the little ridge, with a gentle smile, "Arthur, in your kingdom. Think he'd be complaining of uncomfortable conditions?"

Merlin said ruefully, "Probably not."

At the same time, Gwaine said, "Hells, that boy can be such a princess sometime, about his physical comforts." Merlin looked at him in astonishment, and Gwaine added, "We've known him a lot longer than you have – and at fifteen, he was _not_ the man you know today. I could tell you stories…"

And he did. And it helped distract Merlin from the discomfort of boots and saddle, and soon curiosity and novelty and company were more than enough, once more.

They saw deer – and a tiny dainty one with white spots. They saw a fox – blur of brown-red movement close to the ground, suddenly frozen into large ears and bright eyes – then it was all red tail flowing away again. They saw a wolf, too, lean and gray, staring them down from between two of the spiky trees Gwaine had called evergreens, on a ridge, before it loped away. And dozens of squirrels. So many birds that Gwaine or Percival knew specific names for – or argued with each other about – though they were more reluctant to put a name to the colorful blossoms scattering the world of the land.

"Just over the next hill," Gwaine tossed back over his shoulder, an hour before midday.

Merlin's stomach was just beginning to pinch in anticipation of the noon meal – evidently travel increased appetite, though he would have said it was the mare doing all the traveling – and beyond Gwaine's left shoulder, he saw a tower in the distance.

He'd been given directions and advice on riding, what to do with the reins, knees and legs and seat, though he couldn't tell that the mare paid any attention to him, and rather simply kept up with her own horse-companions by choice. Now, he was glad for that, as he forgot horses and knights, all.

"Oh. _Oh_."

Two, three, eight towers. So bright his eyes watered, and long narrow strips of cloth at their very tops waved leisurely in the air movement. Long high walls curved down toward – he could see now – a vast collection of structures like the port-town. Clean walls, and _white_ , the windows perfectly shaped and gleaming with glass, and – he blinked and felt moisture on his face. Felt a vague ache of longing in his chest he didn't fully understand.

"What is it, Merlin?" Percival's voice said, next to him. "What's wrong?"

Palace and town appeared blurred by water; he blinked his eyes clear and saw that Gwaine was turned in the saddle, attentive to him also.

"It's –" He struggled to find a word he hadn't already used. Amazing, stunning, gorgeous, breath-taking… "It makes me think of… my home. My castle, and the city…" He saw sympathy, and resented it a bit, because at this moment it was misplaced, and he needed to explain. "I never thought of it before, but I wish – I wish I could have seen Aetlantys, when it was still a home for humans. An island." It must have been magnificent. Like Camelot, maybe.

He felt a bit disloyal. Because he loved the crumbly mossy stones and the silt-soft floors and the misshapen edges of stone covered by marine growth and deposit. No wooden doors or glass windows, each opening inviting entrance or exit – and he was quite sure Prince Arthur had not played tag with these knights as boys, in and out of those towers and windows, a game that dissolved more often than not into wrestling matches or races, in the blink of an eye, with no consideration for their location. The sea wildlife could be chased, on the instant, followed easily for leagues if he and Will wished it; he never had to sit and watch a fascinating specimen disappear after a single glimpse.

They were waiting for him. It was all different, yes, which was good. But temporary, and that was also good. And _Arthur_ , the best of all.

He said to Gwaine, "Want to race?"

"You think you can stay on?" Gwaine returned, grinning.

Merlin considered. If he didn't, it wouldn't be like tumbling over the ship's gunnel. Then again, he was already sore – how much worse could it get? "Let's!"

"Just til we reach the lower town," Percival warned – and even as Merlin was nodding, each knight gave some signal to his mount that Merlin missed.

But the mare caught it. One hard jounce, and she was off after the others – giving him half a dozen hard bumps that made him regret – nothing, as her gait smoothed and lengthened and almost the air felt like the currents slipping around him, plastering clothing to flesh, and he was tempted to let go the reins which didn't do him any good anyway and spread his arms like swimming –

And then they were slowing to a walk to enter the town; he was gulping and grinning, and couldn't seem to stop either one.

"Still in one piece?" Gwaine teased, and his smile held pride, if Merlin wasn't mistaken.

The streets here were narrower than the port-town, and packed earth rather than paved, but not as busy. Not as many people, and not in as much of a hurry. Mud-plastered walls mingled with stone, and most shops had shelves or counters or a spread of baskets outside for folks to peruse the offerings. No one snapped at each other or jostled; each call seemed merry and full of good-will.

A sound rang out, rhythmic metal-on-metal, and a cloud of sparks billowed suddenly from a great spread of coals. Merlin glimpsed a muscular man with a leather apron, a tool in each hand.

"Blacksmith," Gwaine said beside him.

The next moment Merlin was twisting to stare the other way at a pair of men with – it looked to him anyway – buckets on their heads. And long shirts made of tiny metal rings, and great red cloaks with – a golden creature on the back that looked a bit like a very evil, very large winged seahorse.

"Dragon," Percival supplied this time. "That's the Pendragon emblem. Those two are guards."

Chainmail, then, as Lancelot told him. Merlin glanced at his two companions as they rode toward a break in the high white wall of the palace, and considered what they might look like, dressed in metal. He asked, "Do knights wear those buckets on their heads, too?"

"Only in tournament, or training, or war," Percival answered with a grin, while Gwaine just laughed. "There probably will be some of that to watch, though, that sort of exhibition usually accompanies royal functions like a wedding."

But they were through the break in the wall, and Merlin could see the palace properly, rising so high… Statues. Monsters on the roofs and a horse and rider by the stairs – where another group of humans stood chatting.

A man in blue, a woman with yellow hair in a green gown – Merlin recognized Arthur, nearest them, and ignored the rest.

"Arthur!" he called in unthinking delight, tumbling down from his mount before he remembered the signal for if he wanted the mare to stop. His legs didn't want to work properly, but he managed to keep them under him as he started across the paved area.

"Merlin, wait!" Gwaine hissed after him, and he faltered, remembering the warnings.

 _No magic_ – he wasn't doing magic. _Keep your distance_ – he wondered if the older man in red was Arthur's father, the king. Or maybe the man in blue.

But – the others. He was no judge of human clothing, still, but he had recognized Gwaine and Percival as more carefully dressed than the sailors – and the two guards they passed even more so. This group surpassed them all. Elaborate, and _clean_ , collars to cuffs to heels, nothing unbuttoned or tucked up, or –

Arthur was wearing a band of metal around the top of his head. So too were the older men – thicker, more decorated bands. And the girl had a pin adorning her hair like the one he'd given Freya for their wedding. He noticed now that there was a fringe of other people at several paces' distance wearing plainer clothes, but just as clean and correct, and these people had their eyes down and their hands clasped, waiting – _servants_ , Merlin heard Lancelot's voice say.

All this in a moment, as the circle that formed the center of the courtyard's attention broke – to focus on _him_.

He stumbled to an uncertain stop.

Thinking, for the first time and a bit wildly, protocol matters. The book, the pages, what he'd read and only half-believed in amusement.

Arthur's expression said it all. Because there wasn't one, though Merlin was close enough to see that the other prince's eyes and lips tightened. And he gave his head a single terse shake.

Oh, Merlin had done something wrong. Something rude, and maybe even offensive. He wanted to call out an apology, but his tongue stuck in his mouth and he wouldn't know what to say and maybe that would be wrong too, anyway.

Don't draw attention. If Merlin got into trouble, Arthur might get into trouble – and he might not mind that so much, judging from some of Gwaine's stories, but he would feel responsible to keep Merlin as prince of Aetlantys and sole heir of his father, out of trouble.

And Merlin respected Arthur's responsibility.

He inclined his head to the group – and then Gwaine and Percival were at his sides, in front of him, together hiding him from view as they both made a deeper human obeisance than Merlin had.

"For heaven's sake, slow down and be more careful," Gwaine murmured between his teeth as he straightened – and _this_ knight's seriousness chilled Merlin.

"I'm sorry," he whispered back, at least knowing these two would not be offended. He hoped he'd get the chance to say the same to Arthur – who was already turning away.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …*…

Arthur had a headache that the noon sun wasn't doing any favors.

Bayard of Mercia. The dullest, longest-winded man he'd ever had the displeasure to meet, and of course being king, no one would ever say that to his face. Their first guest, and therefore, the one that would be in Camelot the longest, mingling the blue of his overly-pretentious retinue – knights and lords' sons and squires and three times as many as Arthur might have taken to Mercia – with Pendragon red.

The wine had helped, last night as he'd sat up, as protocol demanded, with the two kings. Far too late, and far too much wine. This morning his headache had the debatable benefit of dimming Bayard's discourse to a background mumble.

But then, an interruption. Arthur's pitiful hope was dashed in an instant by the identity of the next approaching royal party.

Not Rodor, nor Godwyn, both of whom were good-natured and calm, and could temper Bayard's tediousness. Their respective daughters also – shy Mithian and awkward Elena – while not providing Arthur the excuse for leaving elders' company, would at least not add to the discomfort of the group. It was not even arrogant Odin and his more odious son Baldyr, who _would_ provide him the excuse – the entertainment of a male guest of his own generation.

No such luck. It was Olaf, coarse and _loud_ – Arthur winced as the bear-like ruler bellowed a greeting before he, Uther, and Bayard had made it halfway down the great stair to the main courtyard. And Vivian of course, who could talk twice as fast as Bayard about less, sweet and deadly and _shrill_.

He closed his eyes momentarily and thought of excusing himself to Gaius.

"Well, boy, congratulations on your upcoming nuptials are in order, I suppose," Olaf boomed, turning from greeting Bayard and Uther first, to try to wrench Arthur's arm from its socket. The ache in his shoulder sought to join that in his head by way of his neck. "Thank the gods we are still _years_ from such a trial!"

"Father," the slip of a blonde floating in a sea-green confection at his elbow simpered, rolling big eyes ostentatiously. "A wedding does not _have_ to be a _trial_."

Arthur wondered if her tone actually implied that this wedding might qualify, or whether that was his headachy imagination. At this point, though, he might be tempted to agree with her.

"But where is Lady Guinevere?" she continued, tossing her curly blonde hair. "I would have expected your betrothed to meet us with you, Arthur."

"Getting cold feet, is she?" Olaf asked loudly, daring to elbow Bayard, who ignored his interruption to drone on in Uther's ear.

And then a clear call rose above the murmur of the courtyard and the grumbling inside Arthur's skull, a young male voice that he didn't immediately recognize, but it made him think of wind and salt.

"Arthur!"

As he turned instinctively to his name, he had a brief glimpse of Olaf's brusque incredulity, Vivian's wide-eyed affront – and then there he was.

Merlin Emrys, prince of the sea. Heir of mythic Aetlantys. Arguably the bravest and best young man Arthur knew, humble and unaffected, bright-eyed and grinning eagerly and –

Probably had never combed his hair in his life, and this morning looked it. Probably always slept in his clothes, whenever he was human enough to wear them. And this morning looked it.

Arthur yearned – in that moment a pain that eclipsed his foolish hangover – to greet him as an equal, whole-heartedly and with genuine pleasure. To introduce him as royalty, to brag on his skills and exploits and _escape_ the other four.

But he wouldn't. He couldn't. Too dangerous for Merlin. He'd have to – he'd have to – downplay. Ignore.

Arthur loathed himself. His cowardice. His inability to proclaim his friend's identity, claim him an ally and an equal, and protect him from every other royal's reaction. His powerlessness to make them see, and appreciate. Holding Merlin's gaze, he gave his head a brief, vicious jerk. _No. Don't_.

Merlin faltered to a stop, and Arthur felt sick to the depths of his soul.

Better if he had not asked the mer-man to leave his ocean. Better if he had not gone to that fantastic rare sea-wedding. If good-bye had been good-bye. Arthur had been _selfish_ , and that would hurt Merlin.

"Who is that?" Uther said distastefully, and Arthur heard what they were thinking. Dressed as a peasant – and to address the prince by name. At least his hands were empty and he was so obviously unarmed, or the king might have reacted far differently – and wouldn't _that_ have been a disaster.

But Arthur gritted his teeth and didn't answer. Couldn't say, _Gaius' nephew, or something_. Wouldn't say, _I don't know_.

Gwaine and Percival bowed apology, partially blocking Merlin from royal scrutiny. The slender prince wore uncertainty and trepidation openly – and Arthur remembered the look on his face as he tried to hold his own blood in the side of his throat and still help Arthur – and Merlin clearly mouthed, _I'm sorry_.

Arthur deserved Merlin's disdain for the situation and his behavior, not his apology. Briefly he resented Merlin increasing his guiltiness, however illogical that was.

"Your majesty, a message. Prince Arthur." Leon's voice fractured the moment, and he found he was glad to turn, though he had to swallow against a certain thickness in his throat. The curly-haired knight descended the stairs at a controlled trot with a small sheet of parchment in hand; Uther rose a step as Leon offered it.

"What's the news, Uther?" Olaf blustered. "War in the east? Border unrest?"

Vivian sighed and twitched her skirts impatiently, as though standing in the sun was detrimental to the fabric. Arthur thought of his Guinevere, thoughtless of seawater, delighted to sit in a rowboat for hours, for his sake and because she could see the worth of his unusual friends.

"Arthur, it's news for you as well," his father said, handing him the sheet. But before he could more than squint through the glare of the sun on the page, the king continued, "Rains to the southeast have delayed the departure of Lady Guinevere's party from Summarlynd. They expect to arrive in a week's time, rather than three days."

Arthur actually bit his tongue, to keep from cursing his luck out loud. Perhaps he'd flee with Merlin and his three knights and simply ride to Guinevere at Summarlynd, marry her there at her father's home and enjoy a month in the country. Oh, if only.

"For the sake of comfort, let us adjourn indoors," Uther was adding. "It is nearly noon, surely you all are in need of refreshment, as I know I am."

Arthur caught Leon looking past them, registering surprise and pleasure – so Merlin was still there – controlling his expression to meet Arthur's gaze. He signaled with eyes and head, and Leon side-stepped deferentially as the kings climbed the stair leisurely. Before Arthur was close enough to say one word in confidence to the senior knight, his father paused to look back at him expectantly, as he hadn't moved to follow, and the other three of course did the same.

"Please inform Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival that they've been suspended from duty and pay for a fortnight, as punishment for their rude and careless behavior," Arthur said clearly.

Uther nodded approval, and turned his attention back to the ascent to the citadel proper. Vivian spared an astringent smirk over Arthur's head, but Leon's slight frown smoothed suddenly into understanding, as Arthur joined the other royals, and couldn't look back.

He'd make up the matter of their pay later, but at least his two knights were now free to be the host he couldn't, to the secret prince their visitor.

 **A/N: I meant to say sooner,** _ **LFB72**_ **has done an amazing drawing of Dyn-emris over AO3 (thanks again!), you should check it out. Also, I'm told by** _ **Msomaji**_ **that 'dyn' means 'man' in welsh; therefore 'mer-dyn' literally means, merman. Of course I meant to play with the 'mer' of Merlin's name that way, but "Dyn-emris" only came from the "Myrddin (Emrys)" version of Merlin's name… Better to be lucky than good, huh?**

 **Also, if you're disappointed by the initial Merlin &Arthur reunion, I promise there's a better private conversation upcoming!...**


	12. Passing Time

**Chapter 3: Passing Time**

Merlin meant to wait up. He had a vague idea that if the important residents of the human palace had gone to sleep, he could creep out and make his way to Arthur privately. Try to talk to him alone, try to apologize.

Gaius had left a candle burning in the main chamber of the quarters he was to share, and the glow permeated softly to his bedroom through the door he'd left open. Merlin was pleased to be near someone he knew, and someone who knew about him – even further delighted to share with the old man who had such vast knowledge and dry wit. And his quarters were perfectly fascinating, too, though _look but don't touch_ definitely applied here.

The bedchamber he'd been given as his own was neat and clean, and everything he needed was provided. It was quiet, and there was a window where he could see the lower town and the forest – and the sky and the moon.

But his body was tired from unaccustomed exercise – his belly full from the plenteous and hearty meal he'd shared with Gwaine and Percival and Gaius. Merlin sat on the bed to wait for the palace to feel _still_ … he stretched out on the bed… he allowed his eyes to drift shut.

Merlin dreamed he floated on the sea-surface, watching the sky above, sparkling stars and the luminous moon that pulled mysteriously at his most familiar element. He felt cool and free, waves washing over him without alarm, into his ears to muffle the voices…

Voices, though. What were the voices saying?

"Sire, it's late. He's been asleep over an hour already, and…"

"I know what time it is. I just wanted the chance to –" Arthur's voice.

Merlin spread his arms and turned on his shoulder to flip downwards into the water, pushing with the muscles of his lower body – strangely heavy – the water suddenly hard and resistant –

And he tumbled out of bed and onto the wooden plank floor.

Briefly disoriented, he scrambled to right himself, aware of the silence in the outer room. If that meant Arthur had left again – he hurried for the door he'd left open to the candle-glow, and forgot about the three stairs'-height difference between his bedchamber and the rest of the room.

Arthur turned just in time to leap forward, and save Merlin's knees.

"Thanks," he said breathlessly, straightening but keeping his grip on the prince's arm to grin delightedly into Arthur's startled face. "Hello."

"Are you all right?" Arthur said, wearing a slight frown. "It sounded like you fell down in there. Did I wake you? Gaius said –"

"No, I'm fine," Merlin reassured him, too elated for embarrassment. "Clumsy, but fine."

Gaius, standing just beyond Arthur in a long white night robe, grunted. "Not too late, boys. And keep the noise to a minimum?"

Still grumbling, he shuffled to the screen that separated his personal space from the rest of the physician's room. As the room's rightful resident disappeared from view, and the human prince hesitated without speaking or quite meeting his eyes, Merlin felt the odd sense that he was now host, though it was Arthur's palace, and he the guest.

"Want to sit down for a bit?" he asked, gesturing to the side-table that had been cleared for their earlier dinner, and its flanking benches.

Arthur moved with him, perched with his feet under the bench and his elbows on the table, pushing a paper-wrapped package to the side. "Merlin, I wanted to apologize to you."

"For what?" Merlin said, puzzled, dropping down and shifting to the least-uncomfortable position.

Arthur's troubled look deepened. "For – earlier. In the courtyard, when you arrived. The way I treated you, and the fact that I can't – welcome you the way I'd like to, and –"

"It's all right," Merlin said, understanding. "Gwaine and Percival told me, humans generally make more distinction between classes, and there are rules about protocol." He should have brought that book from Lancelot along with him. He should have _memorized_ it. "One of them was your father?"

Arthur nodded. "To my immediate left, and – behind me, maybe, from where you were. The other in Camelot red. Did they also tell you, the other two men are rulers of foreign kingdoms?"

"Yes. My father reminded me," in a very long and serious conversation, actually, "how careful I must be, not to reveal myself. The consequences for _my_ kingdom, if we're found out." And not just to himself. "I'm really grateful that you warned me off, actually – and of course you have to think of your other guests. I know it's not like, if you'd come to Aetlantys."

"I really wish…" by Arthur's expression, Merlin hadn't fully reassured him, "it was."

Merlin smiled. "Duty before desire," he reminded his friend cheerfully.

But Arthur only sighed rather heavily, and covered his eyes with one hand as he rubbed them. Merlin remembered the days leading up to his own wedding, compared them to Arthur's days as supposed by the two knights in dinner-conversation, and added in the news that the bride was delayed. He felt a faint whimsical wish for Freya's arms to twine about him, right now.

"I'm sorry," Merlin added. "They told me, Lady Gwen won't be coming as soon as you'd like? Waiting isn't ever easy…" He wished he could offer Arthur better cheer, rather than more worry.

"She's worth it," Arthur remarked, dropping his hand and gazing unfocused into the air of the room. "There will be others coming, though, it'll be a busy time."

"Just, not busy with the things _you_ want to do," Merlin guessed.

Arthur shook his head, finally looking at Merlin sideways and letting a small half-smile show. "I envy you the freedom you'll have," he said. "Make sure Gwaine and Percival look after _you_ , while they're showing you a good time."

"Don't worry about me," Merlin told him. And thought, that was it exactly. Arthur had come, late at night after his guests had retired, to see to a guest he couldn't welcome openly, because of Merlin's need for secrecy. He ventured, "You're not sorry you asked me, are you?"

Arthur snorted, and the smile showed more definitely. "If you're not sorry you came, then I'm glad you're here," he said, and Merlin relaxed with a smile and nod of his own. "So what do you think of Camelot, then?"

"It's grand," Merlin enthused. "It's huge – bigger than our palace – though I think we lost a good bit when the island sank to the seafloor – did you know your citadel's roots go right down into the bedrock?" His hand on the stone wall beside them, he could feel the echoes of the earth through the connection, reverberations from others still moving about the palace.

"Don't go down there," Arthur advised, "it's only dungeons and store-rooms at the lowest level." His smile was definite, and some of the tension had eased from his shoulders, under his wine-colored, gold-studded jacket. "You've been enjoying your time on land, then?"

"Oh, yes!" Merlin wanted to blurt out _everything_ – the smells and sounds, the horses and the animals, the tree and the campfire and the racing – but could see that Arthur was tired. And it was late. And the human prince would have demands on his time tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day…

"Gwaine and Percival have no official duties for a fortnight, did they tell you that?" Arthur went on. "Anything you want, anywhere you want to go, anything you want to do – they'll make it happen."

Merlin nodded, feeling his throat tighten, a bit. He also wished duty didn't weigh so heavily on his friend. _Anything I can do?_ Only be the easiest guest, stay out of the way, out of trouble.

"They said I could meet your dogs?" he suggested hopefully.

Arthur stared at him a moment. Then tossed his head back to let out a laugh that sounded almost carefree – just as suddenly clapping a hand over his mouth to smother the sound, glancing back toward Gaius' screen. When no reprimand was forthcoming, he turned back to Merlin and shook his head. "My friend, you are… definitely one of a kind. Here." He shoved the paper package at Merlin.

"What's this?" Merlin pressed it hesitantly; it felt soft.

"A gift for you. I know it's not terribly practical, but perhaps in the future…" Arthur acted slightly embarrassed, which mystified Merlin.

"You're not supposed to get a gift for me." He began picking at the knotted string. "I'm supposed to have one for you, and Gwen." They'd discussed it – he and Freya, and even Balinor and Hunith. Nothing edible would survive the trip, Arthur had no need of weapons, and Merlin had no idea of any ornament the human prince would find useful. He'd rather hoped for some inspiration to strike along the way. "The only thing I thought was, if you two ever wanted to take a holiday, we would prepare suitable accommodations at the hot springs…" The paper fell open to reveal soft fabric of a beautiful deep-sea blue. "What…"

Arthur nodded encouragement, and Merlin unfolded the cloth, held it up to reveal a jacket very like the one the prince wore.

"For the wedding," Arthur said. "I didn't want you to worry about… clothes, or… anything."

"Arthur, this is…" He had no words. Too fine for him.

"Try it on." Arthur was suddenly brusque, rising from the bench and backing to give Merlin space to do the same. "I thought – well, Guinevere thought – we decided the color was perfect for you, of course, and so…"

It was the shade of scales that would be in the vicinity of his knees, relatively speaking. Merlin put one arm in carefully, then the other, pulling it up over his shoulders in a movement that tried to be more reverent than a shrug. Arthur reached to fix a fold of the left edge that had tucked itself under.

"If it's not a good fit, I'm sure Gwaine knows a seamstress that can fix it," Arthur said, with a hint of sarcastic humor. "But it looks… pretty good."

"It feels pretty good," Merlin managed. He wished he could keep it, but it would never do to get something like this _wet_. He couldn't imagine even wearing it with Lancelot on the Medusa – it would have to stay here in Camelot.

And suddenly, the regret and longing disappeared. It was like Arthur saying, before they'd fought the kraken, _someday we'll go to the springs_. It was the human prince hoping for, expecting, their friendship to continue.

Merlin twitched his shoulders and gave Arthur his happiest grin. "Thank you, Arthur," he said, "very much."

"As long as you like it." Arthur shrugged, always more reserved in demonstrating emotion, but Merlin understood him better than he once had.

"I do." He looked down, stroking the rich softness, admiring the color again. "I better not wear it to meet your dogs, though."

This time Arthur caught his laugh, though his eyes danced in the candlelight. "No, you better not. I can't imagine how upset Gwen would be."

"Gaius has a cupboard in that room – I'll hang it up for now." Merlin was tired again, content and happy, and he knew Arthur needed rest too, to deal with onerous duty patiently. "Go on to bed, Arthur. Tomorrow is a new day."

"Yeah, and you need your beauty sleep." Arthur gave him a sardonically lifted eyebrow, and moved for the door. "Oh, and Merlin – in the morning?"

"Yes?"

Arthur's grin spread crooked. "Use a comb."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur's worry for Merlin gradually diminished as the days passed without significant incident.

Evidently no one had taken official objection to Gaius' claim of responsibility on the young newcomer; the second evening's feast had the sea prince seated at the far end of the table on the right, next to the old man. And while the majority of Arthur's attention of necessity had to remain upon the guests at the high table – to avoid giving offense and being taken to task by his father and risk someone questioning the intensity of his fascination on the court physician's poor country relation – he caught enough in glimpses, to relax. Merlin remained enthralled by the variety of dishes spread on the table before him, Gaius probably discoursing on ingredients and preparation at his side.

And Merlin aware enough to lift his head and send a twinkly-eyed grin across the room to Arthur. Probably he was happier just as he was, than if he had to dress more formally and sit with the rest of the royalty and mind that his conversation was appropriate and polite and not revealing.

For Arthur, those glimpses and distractions – seeing Merlin enjoying himself - made the whole week bearable.

Mithian and Elena arrived with their fathers. Baldyr arrived with his. Some hours they spent in mixed company, some hours he diluted Baldyr's nauseating arrogance with some or another of Bayard's stuffy retinue in male-only pursuits.

Once he and the two more newly-arrived princesses left Odin's son and Olaf's daughter in chaperoned conversation and equipped themselves for a hunt. Only for Arthur to delay the party's outset, detouring to investigate a disturbance in the kennels.

Caused by Merlin. Wallowing on his back in the soiled sawdust of a whelping-pen, submerged beneath a litter of six-week-old pups. Absolutely ecstatic.

And though they didn't and couldn't know him or what made the moment special and unique, it put a smile on the faces of shy Mithian and awkward Elena, as well as Leon who went with Arthur, though maybe he'd rather have stayed with his two fellows – grinning like boys themselves in the aisle between kennels.

Once on the training field. Sparring in a desultory time-passing fashion with Baldyr as Mithian and Elena occupied themselves at the archery lanes to the side. Arthur caught sight of Merlin and his two suspended escorts, doing something with knives, it looked like - trading lessons for comparison's sake, it might be. Land techniques as opposed to those used under-sea.

"He looks pretty handy with that," Leon leaned close to say in Arthur's ear during a mutually-agreed-upon breather, while several of Bayard's blue-clad knights demonstrated – something or other.

"In close quarters," Arthur agreed.

He wondered if Merlin would be better at throwing – because of course that wasn't practiced underwater – if he was allowed to manipulate the air element at the same time. He wondered if Merlin had been in a combat-type of situation since the battle with the kraken. Not with other mer-people, though presumably Balinor arranged training for his warriors as they did, but still… Arthur gathered that the oceans weren't always a _hospitable_ place.

Once they caught Gwaine and Percival just off the main path to the lake, both knights barefoot, a muddle of boots next to a basket of fish at the base of a large old tree, and sheepish grins on their faces. Nothing was said, but as the horses passed, Gwaine caught Arthur's eyes, and tipped his chin to look straight up. In following his gaze, Arthur was quite sure he caught a glimpse of Merlin tree-climbing.

Once, Arthur trailed his father flanked by Bayard and Alined, along a window-lined corridor, neutrally-interested expression covering impatience and boredom – and alarm had spiked through him to realize the peasant-clad sea-prince was lounging in one of those windows the three oblivious kings would pass.

Uther gave the boy a negligent glance, not so much as pausing in his speech. And not a second after Bayard had passed, Merlin stood up into the corridor – smooth and silent, eyes and smile lit with inner delight – holding out his hand as though he meant to stop Arthur by touch. And on his hand moved the small red dot of an unmistakable insect.

Merlin had dared the notice of those three monarchs to show Arthur that he'd caught a ladybug.

Arthur didn't pause – couldn't pause – couldn't hide his grin, either, but his steps were a good deal lighter, and the two kings never looked back.

That night Alined volunteered his court jester for public performance. Arthur might have minded more if he hadn't been feeling a touch self-conscious about Vivian's lack of participation in other activities; she positively thrilled to the jester's minor magics. Arthur watched flower petals flutter in patterns as the slightly-ridiculous – slightly overweight – middle-aged man 'blow' fire. And couldn't help thinking of desperately-controlled bursts of air flinging makeshift explosives – of his last-chance harpoon blazing with blue flame…

And the young sea-prince, seated on a rough bench between two out-of-armor knights, laughed and applauded with generous goodwill along with the rest.

But he wasn't always with Gwaine and Percival. Once on a ride they'd caught a glimpse of Gaius' figure, across a meadow. He appeared to be simply standing motionless; Arthur looked again and saw another figure kneeling, black hair tousled in sun and wind, sleeves rolled to elbows and hands dirt-darkened, lift a clump of greenery for the old physician's approval.

Once as he and Baldyr escorted the three girls on a leisurely trip through the market, they met the same endearingly mismatched pair. The white-haired old man stoop-shouldered under his long robe, the black-haired boy tall and lanky – respectful and attentive to his elder's words, helpfully carrying half a dozen clay pots, tied together with twine and slung carefully over his shoulder.

The week-end night was a private dinner, and because he hadn't seen Merlin all day – and because Guinevere's party had _not_ arrived that day - he excused himself early and made his way to the physician's chambers, rolling his crimson cloak in a negligent ball – and sat for the better part of an hour listening to his unusual young guest regale him with the story of his visit to a nearby quarry.

Arthur had not anticipated _stone_ to be such a fascinating topic. Or maybe it was just Merlin or his refreshing enthusiasm that Arthur found fascinating.

That was where Leon found him. Laughing as much at Merlin's uninhibited hilarity as at Gwaine's impression of Percival attempting to wield hammer and chisel – the big knight red but grinning, their elderly host striving to hold his mildly-reproving eyebrow in place.

"Arthur."

It took him a minute to react to Leon's stern intensity, his blatant disregard for his fellows and their laughter.

"What is it?" Arthur said, sobering.

"Your father needs you in the council chamber immediately," Leon said swiftly. "Sir Gosyn has returned. Alone."

For a moment Arthur heard Olaf's words, _Getting cold feet, is she?_

Then Leon added, "Gaius, you're needed as well."

Arthur knocked the bench over, in surging to his feet. He left it, and his cloak bunched in a meaningless bundle of fabric on the table.

It was late, but still lacked some hours til midnight. Dark outside, torchlit hallways inside… until he reached the council chamber – he hoped he hadn't run, it was undignified even in an emergency, but he didn't really remember – and pushed through both doors at once.

Uther stood in front of his great chair, still dressed from the day's activities entertaining royal guests. Black and gold, chain and medallion and crown. There were others by the table to the left, not a crowd but an audience, though Arthur's attention didn't bother with individual identity.

Instead he focused on the knight that stood facing his father, just turning at the sound of Arthur opening the door.

Gosyn's pale green eyes flashed wary, before he seemed to relax at recognizing Arthur. He was a good four inches shorter than Arthur, and inclined to extra pounds of soft padding through the middle that his chainmail did no favors for. He'd only just just passed the knight-trials, but always he seemed more glad of that than embarrassed. Tonight, his wheat-colored curls were matted with sweat, his pale skin grimy, his cloak stained and ripped.

That chainmail parted and bloodied across his ribs on the right side.

"Sir Gosyn," Arthur exclaimed, striding forward to join his father and the knight. Worry gripped him, but Gosyn was steady on his feet and betrayed no immediate pain. "What happened?"

"Be calm, Arthur," his father ordered – so he waited until he could speak more privately, with lowered voice, til it wouldn't carry to all four corners of the chamber and spread further as rumor.

Closing with them, Arthur demanded, "The Lady Guinevere."

"I did all I could," Gosyn said. Not a desperate blurt but a weary self-convincing statement, as if the way he said it could make it more true. "We were surrounded. We all fought so hard… in vain. They gave no quarter. They killed everyone."

Except Gosyn, obviously. Which gave him hope for…

"Who?" Uther demanded.

"The men of Havallach, I believe," Gosyn said. "I recognized the green owl emblem."

"Lord Melwas or his men," Uther commented. The man governed an estate bordering both Camelot and Summarlynd – not an ally but someone with whom they shared understanding and neutrality. A man closer to Uther's age than Arthur's, without wife or heir apparent. "Why would he?"

"What of the lady?" Arthur said, in a low, even voice. His hand, he realized, was on the sword-hilt at his hip. "And your own escape?"

"I was wounded," Gosyn said, a bit stiffly. Covering embarrassment, maybe. "They allowed me my life, that I might bring the Pendragons a message."

"Which was…" Uther invited.

Arthur fidgeted, his own more important question left unanswered. What of his lady in the middle of this? Gentle, patient, spirited Guinevere, surrounded by battle and death…

"A ransom." Gosyn named a sum.

An outrageous sum. Uther's lips thinned thoughtfully.

"The Lady Guinevere is unharmed?" Arthur pressed.

Gosyn shifted only his eyes, sideways to Arthur. "She is unharmed, but to be held captive in the fortress until the price is paid."

"Arthur," his father said, taking two steps to the side.

He followed, anticipating what his father would say. Agreeing with it in his head, but snarling a wild protest in his heart that he did not allow to show on his face.

"It is too much."

Arthur breathed in, then out. "Perhaps if we were to combine funds with her father Lord Thomas…"

Uther was already shaking his head. "Half the demand is too much," he said softly, sympathetically.

"Perhaps we can offer a lesser sum –" Arthur resented his father's reluctance. "He must be willing to bargain, Father, Havallach is a quarter the size of Camelot, he cannot mean to provoke war."

"Much like our citadel, their fortress has never been taken," Uther reminded him. "Melwas would not have made this move without consideration. It is possible he wishes to wed Lady Guinevere himself by force, and this is subterfuge only. An excuse for when he does so. Ransom unpaid, he simply keeps his hostage. Uncivilized, but not unheard of."

Arthur gripped his hilt, letting his head fall forward and his eyes slide shut. Every ounce of his being screamed to prevent that happening to his Guinevere. Every promise, every vow he made neither to rest or relent until Melwas paid for his mistake with his life, would not stop the lord in the meantime. Would not erase the violation from Guinevere's memory and experience and reputation. All of Arthur's love would not be able to give her innocence back.

"Let me take men and go," he heard himself say. "I have nearly a fifth of what he demands in ready gold. Let me take it and try to bargain – even if he will not, there may be some weakness about the fortress that we can discover, that we can exploit, something!" He held his father's gaze. "It is an insult, and at the very least, should not go ignored."

His father considered. Arthur knew what he was thinking – with their royal company, Gwen's abduction could not remain private information. So… what was an acceptable response. What showed strength rather than betraying weakness.

Finally Uther nodded. "You have a fifth of the ransom," he said, "you may take a fifth of our men." Because of course Arthur couldn't strip the citadel of its defenders, especially with the other rulers here – both for their safety from outsiders that Camelot was responsible for as the host kingdom, and for Camelot's safety from their forces, if they made themselves so obviously vulnerable; there were those among their guests who would take advantage of that. "That gold is yours – if you can negotiate an agreement, you may spend it as you wish. If you see an opening, I trust your head for strategy. But do not risk yourself unduly. That is an order."

Unduly. He'd have to remember that, and define it later. Though probably Leon would receive instructions on that matter, himself.

"Yes, Father. I'll be leaving at first light."

Arthur glanced around for Leon; the senior knight would choose and notify the men, arrange for their supplies. Gwaine and Percival Arthur was sure would come as well, official suspension notwithstanding; they'd probably be offended if he tried to go without them. Leon was there at his elbow – but so was Sir Gosyn, and there was a hard edge to him now that Arthur wondered at.

"My lord, I would go with you to Havallach," Gosyn said. "My honor is at stake with the fate of Lady Guinevere. Do not make me beg you."

Arthur held his gaze for a moment in which the king did not object, and no one else said anything. He felt anger for the result of the younger man's failure, but also sympathy for how he'd feel, how he'd want to make amends and earn back favor and respect. "Have Gaius see to your injuries," he said finally. "If the physician agrees that you're able to, you may ride with us and welcome."

Sir Gosyn made king and prince an inclusive and abbreviated bow, and turned to find Gaius; the old man moved forward at the same time. Arthur looked back to his father for any word of advice or farewell; Uther gave him a nod of meaningful confidence, and stepped back toward the room's other occupants.

"Leon," Arthur said, heading for the doors and sensing rather than seeing the senior knight move beside him.

Gwaine and Percival had followed from Gaius' chamber; they stood at relaxed attention a few paces inside the door. Serious and intent, they waited on his order though they probably hadn't heard what the matter was.

"Dawn," Arthur said to them, not slowing. Not until he saw who stood behind and beside Gwaine, just inside the door.

"For how long?" Percival said.

"Several days," Arthur replied, as much to Merlin as the other two. The younger man was tense and worried – for him, Arthur appreciated. But it wasn't puppies and ladybugs anymore. He gave his head the same sort of brief, decisive shake he had when Merlin tried to cross a courtyard unwisely his first day there.

 _No. Don't. I'm sorry._

"You don't have to stay here and wait," he said in a low, swift voice. "If you want to leave, Gaius will make sure you get home."

His three knights following, Arthur strode past Merlin, out the door.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The human world tipped around him before Merlin fully realized what was happening.

First he thought, it was because Arthur had jumped up so abruptly and carelessly from the bench they shared by the table in Gaius' quarters; Merlin had to fling his arms out and brace against table and wall to keep from tumbling himself.

And then, both Gwaine and Percival were right on Arthur's heels, out the door after Leon without a single syllable of question or explanation. Even Gaius hurried in following them and Merlin, in the absence of direction or request to the contrary, trailed with the slower older man.

"What's going on?" he ventured quietly, careful on the stairs as the elderly physician was.

"Sir Gosyn led the Lady Guinevere's escort," Gaius informed him shortly.

Merlin understood in an instant. Such a man arriving, in need of medical care and alone, meant something had happened to Arthur's betrothed. Merlin wanted to skip on to the human prince's side, along with the three knights. He'd only met Lady Gwen once for a few hours, but she'd been gracious and kind; Arthur obviously trusted her with Merlin's identity and the location of his home. And just as obviously, cared for her very much. Perhaps it wasn't like Merlin's love for Freya – they'd known each other since they were tiny, all mer-children did – but it was special.

But he remained at Gaius' side. It wouldn't help Arthur if Merlin got in the way or distracted the wrong person at the wrong time with a mistake in his behavior.

There were maybe a dozen people in the chamber Gaius entered, grouped about a table to the left, but all watching a trio of men in the center of the room. Arthur, the middle-aged king Merlin had come to recognize as his father Uther, and a shorter young man in armor and cloak that was nowhere near the pristine condition Merlin had learned was requisite, about the citadel.

Gaius continued into the room – having been specifically summoned, of course, he was sure of his welcome – but Merlin lingered behind Gwaine and Percival as though the physical barrier of their bodies would prevent the roomful of people noticing him or any involuntary mistakes he might make.

He thought he'd done well that week, at least there hadn't been any serious complaints. They'd kept busy, certainly, every experience was new and interesting and it took so much more energy to get from one place to another on land that he was always exhausted at night, and slept very well as a result. And other than the one day they'd gone fishing at the lake, he'd managed to push a sort of homesickness more physical than mental or emotional, to the back of his mind. It helped that –

The shorter knight shifted, and Merlin's attention was caught.

They were perhaps half-a-dozen paces from the three; no words were audible. And maybe if Merlin had been able to understand the conversation, he would not have paid so much attention to the undercurrents of their behavior. Human carriage was still something he puzzled over, occasionally, and this short knight was new to him. But still something seemed… off.

Arthur was impatient, Merlin could tell that from the way the prince stood, the little movements he made, the tilt of his head and set of his jaw. Bad news, then, or…

Merlin had observed Balinor's top commanders give reports – all relevant news, quick and concise, and then the king could consider and question. It seemed to him, through inexperience or design, that Sir Gosyn had delayed some relevant or vital information. He stood sideways to the prince, but he was _focused_ on him, in a way that he was not, on his king. Was that odd? Merlin wasn't sure.

It made him think of a shark, smelling blood in the water and gliding almost unobtrusively, just beyond perception. But ready to twitch and dart, inhale and devour, going in for a kill that was brutally casual and mindless.

But maybe he was being uncharitable toward a stranger, someone who'd been through unknown hardship. As the king and prince stepped further aside to confer, Merlin murmured quietly to the broad backs of his two friends, "Do you know him well, Sir Gosyn?"

Neither of them answered immediately, distracted by their focus on king and prince. Gwaine responded vaguely, "He'll do in a pinch."

"He means well," Percival added in much the same tone. Then Arthur spun on his heel, and both knights straightened instinctively as their prince stalked to them, Leon at his elbow.

Merlin had seen that intensity before, as Arthur contemplated the problem that was the kraken – but he hadn't seen the _emotion_. There was anger there, rage and pain. Settled, like sea-bed silt, but ready to be churned up murky at the least disturbance.

"Dawn."

"For how long?"

"Several days."

Then Arthur looked at him. And his blue eyes were tired-light and pain-pinched and Merlin felt like he was now a heavier burden on his human friend than he'd been as an unexpected shape-shifter along for the ride on a vital and maybe doomed mission.

He wanted to say, _You came to my world, you learned about me and my people, you figured out a way for us to work together, to fight and win. Can't I do the same for you?_

Arthur spoke to him. And he heard the echo of his father, more than two years ago - _You're no warrior... stay home_.

Merlin turned his head and watched the human prince – head down and shoulders bowed with tension – and his three knights, disappear around the corner.


	13. The Fortress of Havallach

**Chapter 4: The Fortress of Havallach**

 _Merlin turned his head and watched the human prince – head down and shoulders bowed with tension – and his three knights, disappear around the corner._

A moment later, Gaius was moving past him, clearly escorting Sir Gosyn, and Merlin saw the blood for the first time – maybe that accounted for the oddity he felt from the stranger's demeanor. Gaius glanced at him, the knight ignored him completely, and he followed the two of them.

No reason to stay. And he wouldn't trail his warrior-friends like a hopeful adolescent. He could be of use to Gaius, perhaps, and deep in his gut he was reluctant at the idea of his old friend alone with this young stranger. Well, stranger to _him_ at least, he amended mentally.

Back in the physician's chamber, as Gaius began to help the knight disrobe for examination, with short murmured queries and even shorter answers, Merlin moved to right the bench. Quiet and unobtrusive as he'd ever floated around the edges of one of his king's meetings or one of his parents' more serious conversations. Aware but not included.

"You were lucky," Gaius pronounced at last.

The knight rested shirtless on the edge of the cleared end of the work-table; the old man simply shifted sideways to rummage among the bottles and equipment where he worked turning bits of plants and other substances into medicines. Merlin cast a glance from the corner of his eye, grimacing in a bit of sympathy at the angry red slash and smeared, though now dried, blood across the left side of Sir Gosyn's body. High up on the ribs, and so no worries for the organs lower down, if Merlin was any judge.

"For the amount of damage to your armor and blood on your clothing, this is only a shallow cut," Gaius continued. "I would have expected more bruising, maybe even a cracked rib or two."

Merlin's hands found Arthur's cloak in a crumpled heap on the table, and began to straighten and fold it as best he could. And as the bulk of the old physician, the distraction of touch and pain, was no longer between them, the movement drew Sir Gosyn's attention.

Not to him.

It was something Merlin found curious about humans, and he hadn't figured out yet. The classes of people dressed as Merlin was, saw everything and guessed more. But the classes of people who were better-dressed, some of them truly and maybe even instinctively disregarded those who wore plainer clothing as though they were all just furniture. Not of all them did, not ever Arthur or any of the knights Merlin had befriend on the Medusa, but… this knight did.

Gosyn looked not at Merlin, but at the cloak in his hands, crimson and sewn with the gold Pendragon emblem. And his lip curled.

A flash of a sneer, and then his pale eyes found Merlin's – Merlin froze, not sure what expression was on his face – eyes cold and blank like a shark's.

Merlin opened his mouth and said, "Gwen. The Lady Guinevere, is she all right?"

Sir Gosyn blinked once, and _looked_ at him. "And you are?" he said condescendingly. Not answering the question.

"He's my boy," Gaius said without looking up from his work, neither defensively nor dismissively, only stating a fact. But he stepped between them again, preparing to tend the tear in the knight's skin, and Gosyn's eyes dropped to observe the process. "As long as you get a good night's rest, Sir Gosyn," the old man continued, "I see no reason to exclude you from Arthur's company in the morning. Merlin, could you step outside for a moment and find a servant to fetch a spare shirt? Thank you."

Merlin obeyed, but left the door open. He couldn't imagine why the stranger knight might act against the physician – or what he himself could do to stop a human warrior without betraying the elemental affinities that would spark a host of unanswerable questions, but… just a precaution.

At the bottom of the tower stair, he found a mousy brown-haired girl servant, delivered the message, and was assured that the errand would be taken care of. But, recognized the voice of another approaching from an adjacent hallway, Merlin paused to wait – and the next moment, Gwaine strode into view.

"Ah, Merlin," he said. "I was just coming to talk to you."

"You're leaving in the morning, all of you," Merlin said. "And Sir Gosyn."

Gwaine nodded, shoving his hair back distractedly; there was no trace of his usual humorous twinkle. "Guinevere is being held captive in the fortress of a lord who's never exactly been a friend of Camelot. Evidently she's unharmed for now, but…"

"They've made demands?" Merlin guessed. His people didn't have to deal with enemy factions of their own kind, but every now and then there were disturbances his father had to handle. Criminals and rogues.

"They've made impossible demands." Gwaine frowned. "Have you and Gaius talked about –"

Merlin shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest so that his fingertips touched the hilt of his stone knife in its sheath under his left arm. "He's still seeing to Sir Gosyn."

The knight nodded, lost in thought. "Of course he wouldn't mind you staying –" deep troubled sigh – "but it's not at all certain that there will be a wedding, you understand? If you'd rather simply return home, I'm sure Gaius can arrange someone to ride with you back to Low-croft to wait for Lancelot."

"Gwaine," Merlin said, and waited for the knight's dark eyes to fully see him. "I realize I should be asking Arthur this, but right now he's got a lot on his mind and I think he'd turn me down just because that would be the easiest response. With good reason, possibly, but I'm not sure he'd be able to objectively evaluate my offer."

Gwaine's eyes narrowed slightly. "You want to ask me to come with us, don't you."

It wasn't _no, absolutely not_. Gwaine was waiting to hear him out, which he appreciated. Footfalls scuffed in the corridor, and Percival's bulk showed close enough to join them, but Gwaine didn't look around, and Merlin held his gaze. The stone of the citadel around him told him, there was no one else near enough to overhear.

"Bear with me," he began his explanation, low and hurried all the same. "My mother was a commoner among our people, she has no affinity at all, and my father married her for love. But all my life, there was an unspoken understanding, that I would have to marry from the high blood, to ensure that my heir could control at least one element. That I could not marry someone like my mother, risk diluting royal blood and my descendents losing the ability to wield the horn."

"But I thought Freya –" Gwaine said.

Merlin nodded, but raised his hand in a wordless request to be allowed to continue. "It was because of what happened with the kraken," he said. "Because I came on board your ship, because of that I changed, because of _that_ acquired the command of air and fire. Because of _that_ , the pressure to marry wisely – politically – eased. Disappeared. I consider that I owe Arthur for support and encouragement, and aid in the conditions under which I was able to claim my love as my bride." He added with mild irony, "Living through the battle, so that would even be possible."

There was understanding on Gwaine's face – on Percival's also, though he hadn't heard Merlin's initial request. And then there were footsteps, quick and light; Merlin waited as the brown-haired servant girl with folded cloth in hand whisked past them up the stairs – giving her a grateful look and smile.

"If you believe that my presence would be more hindrance than help, I won't go," he said, turning back to the two knights. "If you feel it is dishonorable for me to go without asking Arthur for specific permission…" he straightened and steadied himself, "then I won't. But I would be privileged to help – in _any_ way I can – Arthur to reclaim Lady Gwen as his bride."

They understood that as well, though it wasn't wise to openly discuss magic in the halls of Camelot. The two exchanged a long look while voices echoed down to them from the physician's chambers. The shy girl came hurrying back down with another smile for Merlin, disappearing quickly and quietly. Before Merlin could guess at his friends' thoughts or path of decision, they seemed to come to the same conclusion.

"Sometimes it's easy to forget that you're actually a prince," Gwaine remarked.

Percival interjected wryly, "Catch Baldyr volunteering like this, though."

Gwaine huffed and grinned, without taking his eyes from Merlin's. "But, if you're in the stable an hour before dawn –"

He was interrupted by the sound of other voices at the top of the stair, and cut himself off. They all listened to boots tread heavily and decisively; Merlin instinctively adopted a servant's stillness and wasn't surprised to see Sir Gosyn from the corner of his eye. The knights greeted each other – Merlin was again overlooked – and Sir Gosyn passed on.

When his footsteps faded, Gwaine finished, "We'll have a horse for you. Percival and I will probably ride in the rear anyway, as we're officially still in disgrace, that way Arthur won't notice you and we won't be around for him to ask us about you. But it'll be a campaign – hard riding and rough living – not a pleasure jaunt."

Merlin nodded seriously; of course he didn't expect it to be easy or pleasant.

Then unexpectedly, Percival's square face relaxed, and Gwaine's grin flashed wide. "Glad you're coming," the roguish knight said, shifting to take his leave. "See you in the morning."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Havallach was a fortress, and ancient. There were rumors of crypts riddling the hill – the highest point for leagues around – rumors that it was hollow. Perhaps it had simply been built up, over countless decades, layers on top of layers of repairs and additions.

Arthur stood at the entrance of the main pavilion of the camp his men had erected the previous night, not quite leaning on the tent pole – in case it turned out unable to bear his weight – listening to the tent material billow and flap, the snap of a loose rope-end, in the rising wind.

The sky was magnificent with sunset. Low, voluminous clouds gilded and colored as the last rays of the setting sun slipped between their edges and the rim of the earth. Give it another hour and the darkness would steal all the charm from clouds and wind. It might even rain. Again.

And Arthur could not seem to stop staring toward Havallach.

Visible for leagues. And unapproachable for the last – but for a causeway that was long, narrow, and completely defendable – as the hill rose from treacherously marshy terrain. Made worse, of course, by the torrential summer rains.

"My lord?"

Arthur didn't turn; he recognized the deep scratchy voice of the last of the captains sent to test the natural defenses of the fortress. All day the patrols had been coming up empty-handed, except for the rotten muck of the land – he didn't expect to hear any different now, but it was a last discouragement to know for sure that hope was useless. "Report."

"No success, sire. We could find no clear path, even a narrow one, by land or by water."

It was the same everywhere. No way of getting close to the hill except the causeway. And even if there was, it was still a bloody fortress, and they'd have to fight their way inside, somehow. Perhaps if Arthur had ten times the men, time to plan and besiege the place – build boats or dig drainage ditches or cart in earth from elsewhere to fill in footing – but they still had Guinevere for hostage. He'd be taking Havallach to punish them for whatever they did to her, the time it took them to conquer the hill, not to rescue her.

"Thank you, that will be all – no, wait, not quite. Could you have someone locate Sirs Percival and Gwaine, and send them up? Thank you."

Boot-shuffle and armor-jingle as the knight half-bowed and departed. There were others still in the pavilion, however, the acting headquarters of his company. Discussing – whatever it was they were discussing, in voices too low for him to hear.

Another noise cause his attention away from the fortress-hill black against the fading sunset until dark brought out the glimmer of its lights for at least the first watch. He watched the figure approaching from the southeast for three steps before he recognized him.

"Leon," he said, as soon as he could speak without raising his voice for the other to hear him. "What of Auldkirk?"

Built on the only patch of tenable ground in the vicinity, the town was little more than a hamlet that served as home for those who worked muck-farms for root vegetables, and hosted the market that supplied the fortress. It had been Arthur's thought that no stronghold should or would have a single obvious entrance, no matter what the storage capacity or water supply. Even Camelot's citadel had secret and hidden emergency tunnels. If Havallach had something similar, it stood to reason that the outlet was concealed by the town in some way.

Leon was shaking his head before he stopped walking. "If there is a tunnel, no one would speak of it even to confirm its existence," he said, and Arthur heard the weariness of a day wasted in fruitless inquiry in his voice. "I could give you half a dozen guesses to its possible location, but the people are not going to submit to our searches unless we're willing to use force. We're beyond Camelot's borders, here."

"No doubt there are measures in place to prevent the success of such a search, also," Arthur sighed. Communication system between Auldkirk and Havallach, at least, and then they'd find such a passage heavily defended at the far end, if it wasn't simply blocked or filled in.

The silence gathered the weight of anticipation, his men looking to him, waiting for him. Leon said nothing; Arthur knew if he had an idea, he would speak up. But he didn't. Then Sir Gosyn stepped into Arthur's line of vision on the left, respectfully watchful.

"Do you have orders, sire?" he said quietly.

"Nothing tonight, Gosyn," Arthur said tiredly. Full dark was yet the better part of an hour away, but the color was gone from the sky. Nothing could be done, if he even knew what to do.

"May I ask – what are you thinking? For tomorrow. Do you have a plan?"

Arthur listened to the rustle of the others attending to his response, the more deliberate whisper of tent fabric signaling new arrivals – Percival and Gwaine, maybe, but he didn't turn. Those two specifically were useful for voicing options that wouldn't even occur to others, or that they would never dare to suggest. Ranging from improbably to downright suicidal, sometimes, but Arthur supposed there wasn't _no_ hope, after all. And there was still the attempt to bargain, see what came of that.

"Melwas knows we're here," he said evenly, still focused on the fortress though he could still see both Leon and Gosyn. "He would have known within a quarter-hour of our arrival. And because we didn't send a messenger to notify him his requested ransom had arrived –" and honestly, how could he expect them to pay such a sum? what was he really after? – "he knows we don't have it, and he's probably guessed that we spent today probing his defenses. Tomorrow, either he will send an envoy to open negotiations, or I will."

And what there was for him to say, beyond the reduced counter-offer… he didn't know. Threats, maybe. An offer for single combat. Neither of which would be taken seriously, probably.

"Arthur, there – were stories that we heard. Today, in Auldkirk." Leon was hesitant, but his gaze was steady. "Underground springs that cause these marshes and lakes. A network of hidden subterranean waterways beneath the hill."

"Their water supply, for one," Arthur said, trying to rein in his impatience. "But local legend, else. And how –" _in all hell, Leon_ , he didn't say, not with this audience – "do you suppose that will help us?"

A hand grasped his elbow.

He knew in an instant, who it was that stood behind and beside him, just out of sight. Only a few of his men would dare the familiarity, and this touch was all wrong for a knight. Light, against his chainmail, rather than firm, but not hesitant.

And now, damn it all, the exasperation was full-blown. Yet, unmistakably touched by the same renewed hope that lit Leon's expression.

Arthur turned to meet two blue eyes – apprehensive, yet resolute – slightly higher than his own. He had not til this moment realized that Merlin as a human was just a fraction taller than him.

And, just as he had after nearly breaking his neck tumbling down the steps of the physician's apprentice-room to greet Arthur, late at night when he should have been sleeping, Merlin said only, tentatively, "Hello."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin had smelled the water, a full hour before the first reflective glimmer was visible in the distance. It took his mind off his sore seat and stiff legs and back.

It wasn't the free open saltiness of the sea, but a stagnant shallows that hinted of dead things in unplumbed bottoms. Sodden tree trunks and layers of decaying organic matter. Still, it was hard for him to keep his head down and act ordinary, dismounting and making himself useful setting up a bit of the bigger camp, though he didn't think the two knights noticed his distraction – or at least didn't guess the reason for it.

It had been difficult also to fall asleep, thinly cushioned on the damp but unyielding ground with the elusive scent of wet all around him, heavy on his skin and cool in his clothes. Once asleep, though, his slumber was deep and peaceful and full of dim serenely flowing dreams.

In the morning he woke late and had to scramble for boots and the extra bowl of porridge that Percival brought back, along with news of their plans for the day. Still outside official orders and duties, they were nevertheless going to join in, in their own way, with the several patrols Arthur had organized.

"A path to the fortress," Gwaine said, arms flung out for balance as he tried to keep the unsteady earth from swallowing his feet. "Good luck with that."

"What do you suppose we'll do, say we actually find it?" Percival added. "Couple barrels of black powder by night? Blast a hole in the wall and climb through fighting?"

Merlin didn't mind investigating the marshy terrain at all, and mostly followed the other two, venturing further toward the fortress at times, further into the water. Percival had Merlin's boots slung over his shoulder to keep them clean; he felt free to mire himself, knowing they'd pull him out if he couldn't do so himself. Keeping in view of the other two, Merlin wandered soaked and muddy and happy it was midsummer since his human body's skin was not the same protection against temperature that his scales were. Occasionally when he tripped he allowed himself to sink – or float, depended on perspective, maybe – even up to his ears, and the knights learned not to panic.

The earth and water here was complex. Ponds joined by narrow winding streams, whole islands built on floating morasses, accumulated dirt and straggling seed-growth, weeds and grasses. Craggy old trees draped with vines, roots reaching far deeper than the shallowy puddles around them. The ripples told him sly little riddles and hinted playfully at answers – and if he'd felt any connection of these water-bodies to the greater sea that was his home, he might have been tempted to disappear into his native scales and fins. At least for a few hours.

And when the sun touched the horizon and Gwaine hollered to bring him back, he slopped agreeably to them, with them to the tent they shared on the edge of the orderly encampment, thinking of the possibility of a hot wash. Merlin sniffed ecstatically at the promise of rain! maybe he'd sleep outside tonight, for that wash – as his two friends spoke with another knight in chainmail and crimson cloak that had been waiting for them.

"Do your laundry spell," Gwaine advised him with a grin that didn't meet his eyes. "Arthur's summoned us."

"Is that good or bad?" Merlin asked, tipping a bit as he stepped into the boots Percival set down. A covert glance around assured him it was safe to manipulate air and water, to make his clothing a bit more presentable. Maybe Arthur had found out that Merlin had come, and was unhappy – maybe even angry about it.

"It probably means he's desperate," Gwaine concluded.

"Are you sure I should come?" Merlin hesitated. "Maybe he doesn't want me, at the meeting I mean."

"He wants you whether he knows it or not," Percival commented.

Merlin had to trot to keep up with his friends, but it wasn't a surprise where they went. The biggest tent – for meeting, not sleeping or eating – was red and sewn with the dragon crest, and of all of them squarely faced the hill of Havallach in the darkening distance. It _was_ a surprise to Merlin, entering through a flap at the back of the tent, how many of the knights were present. Commanders, possibly, or councilors with experience or advice.

He stopped counting at seven, looking past them and seeing Arthur at the open front, standing with his back to the rest. Arms crossed and immobile, Leon and Gosyn the nearest, looking into his face though he faced neither directly.

Percival and Gwaine moved further into the large tent than any of the crowd of unfamiliar knights, but Merlin stepped past both of them, closer to Arthur. Over the prince's shoulder, Leon saw him – and his hazel eyes widened suddenly as at an idea.

"Arthur," the senior knight said. "There were stories that we heard today, in Auldkirk. Underground springs that cause these marshes and lakes. A network of hidden subterranean waterways beneath the hill."

Merlin inhaled suddenly, feeling the truth of the words, though the suggestion clarified what he'd noticed only subconsciously. Realization quivered through him, ripples that spread and rebounded crooked, currents from unseen paths, stretching and circling and centering on the hill like an iris… through which the waves of vision passed. A natural maze, of course, and maybe impassable to anything but the water that sought its own level and filled all cracks and trenches and pockets, but it was there. The hill was neither solid nor opaque.

"Their water supply, for one," Arthur said dismissively. Because he didn't know – how could he know? "But local legend, else. And how do you suppose that will help us?"

Merlin stepped closer yet – avoiding the direct sneer-gaze of Sir Gosyn, who after all probably should consider him a stupid nameless peasant – and dared greatly. Eyes on Arthur's profile, unsure of his reception, knowing he would draw notice from the others to do even this much, he reached to take a gentle hold of Arthur's elbow and so wordlessly request his attention.

For a heartbeat, Arthur didn't move. But something in the corner of his expression seemed to relax, before he turned his head and looked unsurprised, right into Merlin's eyes.

Merlin managed, "Hello."

Wishing and hoping with all his might that Arthur would understand that he was offering, not requesting, help. His own unique expertise, in whatever way it suited. Arthur shifted to look at Sir Gosyn, and Merlin dropped his hand.

"We'll talk more in the morning," Arthur told the shorter knight. As Gosyn bowed in an obedience that seemed slightly dissatisfied, the prince turned all the way around to address the others. "Thank you all for your hard work and advice today – we shall have to wait and see what tomorrow brings. You are dismissed."

In the movement and noise of the others taking their leave, Arthur said to someone who stepped up behind Merlin in a tone of mild vexation, "Dammit, Gwaine."

"I agreed to it also, my lord," Percival interjected, stepping up to Merlin's other side, muscular arms bare to the shoulder, folded across his chest.

"Perhaps it's for the best, Arthur," Leon said, and then Arthur met Merlin's eyes, and there was no anger or resentment or regret for their meeting, and Merlin took hope at that.

"They told me about Gwen and the ransom," Merlin said quickly. "That it's too much so Melwas won't just give her back. I guess you've been trying to find another way inside? Blast in, or sneak in and rescue her?"

"You have an idea?" Arthur said. And again Merlin glimpsed great emotion held firmly in check. He himself was still working on that control.

"I was in the water a bit today," Merlin confessed, and Arthur gave him a glance-over. His clothes were dry now, but wrinkled and stained with mud and mold. "I think Leon's right about the waterways, under and into the hill. It felt like – quite a maze, but I believe I can navigate."

"Without getting lost," Arthur said, a wrinkle of concern showing between his brows. "And without drowning, like that?" He indicated Merlin's human body.

He had an answer, but he did the prince the courtesy of slowing it and reconsidering as he spoke, so he could be sure. "I think I can shift –"

"As a fish, you might get stuck in the mud, mate," Gwaine said seriously. "There's spots of quicksand out there, too."

"Part-ways," Merlin amended. "I think I can go half and half for this sort of bog country, and do better than either." Full-body scales would help regulate his temperature, and protect him from snakes and insects and things that lived in the mud, and the webbing in his fingers and the gills in the sides of his neck could help with swimming and necessary submersion, but if he kept two legs instead of one tail, he'd be able to crawl or climb, still.

"Is that something you'd have to do alone," Leon said quietly, "or could you take someone along to –"

Merlin shook his head quickly, before the senior knight had finished. "It would have to be alone."

It was probably going to be hard enough to bring Gwen out, without worrying about another human in the treacherous swamps. But at least the second time traversing the terrain, he'd know better what he was doing – and they could take their time.

Arthur dropped his eyes and pinched his lip as he thought, shifting to bring the black-on-gray shape of the distant hill into his field of vision. "Say you can get inside," he said. "What then?" Merlin looked at him blankly, and the prince added, "We don't know where she's being held – you can't exactly wander about peering into rooms, someone's bound to notice and remark on your odd behavior."

Merlin had supposed he could simply use his affinities judiciously, tell a fib or two – honestly, the truth was such a stretch no one should _guess_ he was a mer-person in human form, or how he'd gotten in, or that his loyalty was to Arthur rather than Melwas. But he also supposed that Arthur would require a more solid plan than sheer on-the-spot improvisation. Hearing the three knights begin to speculate and suggest, Merlin closed his eyes and imagined himself in the bowels of the fortress of Havallach. It was very like the corridors of Camelot, in his mind, only darker and wetter, and he imagined what he would do to find Gwen, what might help him. An idea skittered…

Here the earth was very little use to him, saturated with water, eddying misleadingly, shifting and smoothing and breaking with no warning or pattern. But there. Cut and quarried and natural stone, reverberating with the movement of all its denizens…

"If she could mark her position for me," he said aloud. "A pattern I could pick out, in the sound and movement of all the rest, a rhythm that's unique and continuous…"

"Like a beacon of sound?" Gwaine said. "But wouldn't they notice and stop her?"

"Not sound exactly, it wouldn't have to be audible, to echo to me through the stone," Merlin said, still with his eyes closed, to better visualize the setting. "As innocuous as tapping a cup or a spoon or a ring, as long as it was distinct, and didn't stop."

"But how are you ever going to let her know to do that?" Leon pointed out.

Merlin looked at Arthur, who wasn't pleased, but said, "Would it work to do something like that leaf?"

He couldn't stop his smile; he'd been showing off a bit for his friend who had very little magic in his life, but he was still proud of that. "Yeah, I could. If she's got a room with a window."

Arthur considered. The three knights and Merlin watched him consider; probably they knew him better than Merlin did, but even he could see Arthur's heartsick worry for Guinevere warring with the risks of sending one man alone to infiltrate. More, though, it was _not_ because Merlin was young or inexperienced or likely, in Arthur's estimation, to fail. He would hesitate to send any one of them into such danger, where he could not also go as leader and protector.

"Please, Arthur," he said softly. "Please let me take this risk. For her, for you, for-"

"How can I let you?" Arthur interrupted, in much the same tone. Quiet but with passion present. "If anything happened to you, how would we even know, before it was too late? If anything happened to you, your father…"

"Don't worry, he wouldn't gut you," Merlin said lightly. "Will might, though."

Arthur's look conveyed his lack of appreciation for Merlin's wit, in the moment. "I couldn't do that to your father – to your mother, to Freya. I wouldn't be the cause of them losing you."

"And I should go home to them knowing I could have helped you, and didn't?" Merlin said. "I wouldn't be the cause of _you_ losing _her_."

"No, that would be Melwas," Arthur said shortly, unhappily. "Merlin…"

"I don't think you could – actually – stop me," Merlin commented. "But – I won't go without your blessing."

Silence again for the moment.

"You would do it for him," Percival stated.

And Leon, right on the heels of the remark, "You would do it for any of us."

Arthur lifted his head, lips pressed together momentarily, his gaze cold and hard as ice on Merlin. "So I've got to let you be noble?"

"You should probably knight him after this," Gwaine suggested, cheerfully disregarding the premature acceptance of the outcome. "Rescuing a damsel in distress."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Arthur said, forestalling Merlin's inclination to a dismayed protest of the human honor. But his shoulders were not slumped, nor his head bowed. "How can we help you? How long do you think you'll need?"

Merlin looked past him into the darkness, estimating though he could see nothing. "If I sent her the message and left immediately, crossed to the hill under cover of darkness – all night, maybe. Say all day to locate and free Gwen, tomorrow night to get back here with her. To be on the safe side."

"Dawn, the day after tomorrow," Arthur said, and Merlin nodded.

Tentatively anticipating Arthur's acquiescence, he stepped from the tent toward the edge of light laid by the lanterns illuminating the pavilion's interior, knelt to scoop up the handful of earth that would form the air-carried missive.

Arthur followed a few steps. "If she doesn't get it. If you can't hear or follow her pattern, just come back."

Merlin hummed agreeably, but noncommittally. As far as he was concerned, Arthur could give him advice but not orders. If the situation needed re-evaluation at any point, it would be up to him.

"If you do get into trouble, is there any way you can let us know, aside from the time running out without you returning?"

Almost blindly, his fingers formed the piece – light but unbreakable, unobtrusive but obvious to Gwen – as he considered. "Probably, but I'm not sure now what it would be. Something unmistakable."

Pushing back to his feet, he drifted back toward the pavilion, biting back his amusement at Arthur's disgruntled reaction to that bit of vagueness. Instead he focused on mentally formulating the message.

 _Beginning at dawn. Tap a rhythm on the stone and do not stop til I find you. M._

He called the spark from deep inside, and it flashed across his palm with a brief pain like touching hot metal. Shaking the sting from his skin, he offered the piece – now fire-etched with the words of the message - to Arthur for his approval. Arthur gave him an odd look before accepting with the faintest reluctance.

"I could add something like, _Arthur sends his love_ ," he teased. And recognized it for an attempt to control his nerves. He wasn't as sure of himself, here, as he would be in the sea.

"Or just wait til she gets here, and tell her yourself," Gwaine suggested, coming up behind them. He had a large hide pouch in his hands, a piece with a draw-string mouth and a shoulder-strap, not unlike those used by Merlin's people on fishing or gathering expeditions. "For your clothes," the knight explained. "You're going as a fish-man, right? But you'll need your clothes and boots once you're inside."

"Yeah, thanks," Merlin felt for the laces at the neck of his shirt, loosening the collar halfway down his breastbone.

"Here," Arthur said, handing him the leaf-note and reaching to the side of his belt, where he wore a dagger in its sheath. "Take this, too. For just in case."

Merlin yanked the shirt sideways to reveal part of his harness-sheath – and grinned at Arthur's surprised look. "Thanks, but I've got my own."

"Use it if you need to," the human prince said seriously.

He nodded, and focused for a moment on his memory of Gwen. How she smelled, how she moved, how she sounded… Calling the wind – rushing through the tent, billowing the canvas like sails – he tossed the message lightly upward, felt and followed it begin to fly to its destination. Just as he'd done with the invitation asking Arthur to come to the sea…

Arthur sighed, a reaction he probably meant to keep private, and Merlin turned to take the pouch from Gwaine. Remembering how humans felt awkward when others were undressed, he decided he'd go as far into the marshes as he could before exchanging cloth for scales. He looked once more around the circle of his friends, drawing strength and comfort – he had a feeling he'd need it – and smiling to encourage their faith in him. And before Arthur could say, _what are we doing_ , and change his mind, he turned to plunge into the damp and darkness.

"Merlin!"

Cringing slightly, he paused – and was surprised himself to feel Arthur's strong arms wrap around him. "You be careful, little brother," his friend said in his ear.

And now he felt like he could dare anything, do anything. "Always," he returned. And when Arthur released him, only a shadow against the glow of the pavilion behind them, he dared to punch the prince's shoulder.

Arthur's chuckle was shaded by the knights' amused responses, and Merlin headed again for the distant fortress.


	14. Navigating in the Dark

**Chapter 5: Navigating in the Dark**

Merlin was glad he was not going to have to navigate inside the hill and the fortress by his sense of smell.

He wondered if maybe the lack of input from his other senses made that one _keener_ – the dark was nearly absolute, and it was quiet except for the slight sounds he made himself, in the water and the mud. With scales covering him chin to toes he felt the cool of both, and the ripples of course told his nerve endings everything he needed to know about his surroundings and destination.

But according to his sense of smell, he was buried under several fathoms of decomposing muck. And it didn't seem to matter if he was underwater or above, though of course he didn't inhale the water; the stench was pervasive and stifling. He couldn't wait to get to the springs Leon mentioned, the springs that represented the far end of his journey and would presumably be pure and cleansing. Drinking water, hadn't Arthur said?

Occasionally he would put his hand down on something that moved, wriggling away from him. Occasionally he felt the brush of some creature along scale-protected flank or leg, and pause to allow its escape. Occasionally he heard the hoot or more distant screech of an owl, and kept on. For a while he ignored the water-maze, simply forging over the terrain in as close to a straight line as he could come. Over the more solid earth, through the deeper mud, beneath the surface of the water if he fit and could stroke freely.

But he was tiring.

Physically, with the repetitive exercise, really only a continuation of what he'd been doing all day, except with a sense of urgency that limited and negated the rests. Most of his attention was focused on his goal – that cluster of subterranean springs – but he found that his body distracted him. Maybe it was because the water that flowed over his gills was murky and stagnant; maybe it was because the air was thick and unhealthy as well, and his body felt the lack of good oxygen.

Something else wearied, too, mind or heart or spirit. Perhaps it was the in-between state he held, each of the two natures struggling against the other to be complete, resenting him for holding full transformation at bay.

The closer he got, the deeper and wider grew the ponds; the saturation of the ground more concentrated nearer the source of underground water. But the complexity increased as well, streams and runnels interlacing. And he hurt, all over. Muscles and bones and lungs; there was an ache at the joining of neck to shoulder on his left, where the strap of the pouch pulled relentlessly. More than once he found himself simply floating, examining the choice of courses, and had to force himself to decide, to start moving again.

The last time he surfaced, he found himself on the very edge of the hill, looming in over him and outlined against the sky – just beginning to lighten towards a dawn still hours away. He wondered if Gwen had gotten the message – and what he would do if she hadn't. He wondered if watchmen on the fortress walls might be able to see him, this close – not in the dark, probably, but he needed to keep moving.

Merlin dove down.

Following the ripples, he had no way of being sure that he chose the shortest path, but it was the surest. However, the first spring-break in the earth below, water rising so slyly – what might be down there? – he swam and searched, relying not on sight or touch directly but the ripples in the water fluttering over scales and nerves, and could not find any significant breaks in the bedrock that formed the base of the hill. What was he to do if the water seeped up into the hill through passages too small for his body?

Forcing himself to ignore the whispers of the myriad currents of the first spring spiraling outwards, he made his way to the next closest.

He still saw nothing but darkness – impossible to tell the time of day, before dawn or after, by now? – but his outstretched fingertips brushed stone to either side. Merlin twisted in the water and felt stone above – but not below. And swam on.

His eyes detected a lessening of the dark, even before he reached the heart of the second spring. He felt it as a burden lifted, a wave of the freshest water to soothe and reinvigorate. For a moment his body shuddered involuntarily with the intensity of the temptation to rejoin his unnaturally-split legs into far more comfortable tail-and-fins.

No. Gwen was waiting. And Arthur depended on him.

Merlin kicked and struggled forward. Dark became dim, and he could see the rock he touched. The spring's newest currents tickled his face, rising upward, and he twisted to look.

It took him a moment to realize how far away the glowing patch of light was. His eyes were convinced he could reach out and touch – the surface? – but nerves spoke of fathoms, yet. He rose slowly, careful not to disturb the water unduly, watching the bleary world of the air beyond… it was not daylight flickering on the surface of the narrow pool, but torchlight. Which meant people, possibly.

He held himself still, in the shadows by the stone wall of the well's shaft, until instinct could not tell him he was not alone and could no longer hold still against the urge to complete the transformation. Even so…

Merlin broke surface warily.

The shaft rose two to three more fathoms above him, to a roof where a rope and pulley had been bolted to a great support beam. Then it tilted to rise still further, out of sight, over a rough stair-path carved by human tools.

He listened to an audible dripping of condensation somewhere within the cistern, and felt the inaudible reverberations of remote movement and tenantry… but he was alone, here.

Deep breaths. His arms and legs quivered as he pulled himself up the slick stone stairs, out of the water to the contrarily heavy world of thin air. He concentrated on _human_ , and little gasps of discomfort – accompanied by occasional bursts of more actual pain – punctuated his breathing. As the webbing shriveled and the scales pattered off him, he shivered and rubbed involuntarily at his neck with his fingertips, suppressing the fear of suffocation – or drowning, wouldn't it be? – that always initially accompanied the closing of his gills.

His left hand trembled as he reached to make sure of the pouch, water-logged and heavy, but he dared not stop, bruising his knees and the palm of his right hand, dragging his aching weary vulnerable human body upwards and into the fortress. Almost he sobbed at the loss of the water, and wondered at himself. Was it eleven days or twelve now since he'd left Freya? Mentally he could contemplate – even anticipate – as many more, spent ashore with his human friends. But physically…

Merlin clamped his lips together to encourage himself to silence. The echoes would chase to the end of whatever passage was formed and if this was a commonly-used water source, it would be frequented.

He rolled awkwardly to his back and tugged his clothes from the pouch, in a sodden lump. No use dwelling on what could not be – he needed to be human, now. The fabric caught at his skin and clung where it wasn't supposed to, but he was soon satisfied enough to call on his affinities to dry himself.

Merlin lay for a time there on the steps, breathing and resting and attempting to sort through the faint echoes of the stone; distant and resistant compared to the ripples in the water.

There. No… there? Yes, perhaps.

He gripped his boots and pushed himself to his feet to plod upwards. He'd never felt heavier in his life. Limbs and lungs and eyelids… his foot lifted automatically and jarred, coming down not on another step but level surface.

The passageway, lined with various sizes of wooden buckets and yokes for carrying more than one, curved to an iron-bound wooden door… and it was opening. He froze in place, and the portly middle-aged woman who bustled through did the same, momentarily, in astonishment. Then her eyes fell on the boots in his hand.

"Oh, not again," she said crossly. His brain registered the drab color of her dress, the presence of a protecting apron. "You know Lord Melwas doesn't want you young fellows sneaking down here, fouling the water because you're too lazy to carry the buckets. Come on now, boots on and back to work." Holding the door with one hand, she chivvied him through with the other. "And tell 'em in the kitchen they'll have to boil the drinking water this morning!" she called after him. "It's only fair."

Astonished himself, but having the presence of mind to take advantage of his luck, he ducked his head as he'd seen servants do, and she turned away, leaving the door ajar. He took a moment to put his boots on, before he ventured further.

The stone of Havallach was muddy in color, compared to Camelot, and rough. He made no attempt to find or remember his way, as tired as he was and as illogical as his path turned out to be, it would be a waste of time and end up confusing him later, when maybe speed and stealth were more important.

He kept his hand on the wall as he moved, ever attentive for that elusive rhythm that was his guide. Maybe a tune, but he wasn't familiar with human music. He hoped she wasn't impatient. He hoped he wasn't imagining it.

Sometimes a corridor led away from the source he'd scarcely pinpointed. Sometimes he had to retrace his steps in search of a stairway leading higher. Sometimes he came unexpectedly upon someone else – men in armor and the livery of a green owl, workers in drab clothing and hands burdened with tools or supplies. He ducked his head shyly and quickened his step like he knew where he was going and maybe was embarrassed about being late. He was greeted twice, but no one stopped him or asked questions, though the pounding of his heightened pulse drowned out the faint strain of reverberations through the stone. Sometimes, in avoiding the other human residents as much as possible – which was nearly completely, since he could sense them moving – working and traveling, he had to duck aside and hide. Into an alcove or doorway, sometimes behind a door.

Sometimes he rested, in those hiding places, the better to focus on Gwen's signal, since he'd do her no good at his current level of exhaustion, anyway. He dozed lightly and waited for his senses to tell him the way was clear, and hoped she'd understand.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

 _Have I made a mistake?_ Arthur wondered that night, until exhaustion betrayed him to slumber.

It wasn't a question he could ask his knights; it wasn't a question anyone asked of a subordinate, ever. He could have asked it of his father – if his father had been there, and if he could have revealed those pertinent details that had influenced his choice. Namely, Merlin's unique qualities and abilities. The fact that Merlin's rank equaled his own. Which probably made Merlin the only one he could have asked that question.

It was his first thought in the drizzly gray dawn, even after hearing from the three knights in confidence, that there had been no sign of trouble specific to their mer-man friend.

He rose and washed and ate whatever was handed to him by whoever thought to bring his prince breakfast. He sent someone else with a standard-worded invitation for Melwas to meet with him, and stood as he had the night before at the front of the pavilion, watching through the rain that threatened to spread the marshes right to the toes of his boots, watching the fortress, the shoulders of the hill hunched under the burden of low rainclouds.

If the answer was yes. What could he do?

Nothing. But even as he hoped, and believed that Merlin could and would succeed, he watched for _something unmistakable_.

"Sire," Leon spoke from the opposite corner. "Lord Melwas."

Arthur shifted his gaze slightly at nearly the same time, catching the movement on the causeway. Half a dozen horsemen traveling at a trot, and they soon reached relatively more solid land, reining in at the distance of a stone's easy throw. One man dismounted, and Leon braved the raindrops to meet and escort him to the pavilion.

"Gwaine," Arthur said, before the others could join and overhear. "Keep an eye on the fortress."

"My pleasure," Gwaine said, a bit grimly.

Arthur took a deep breath and let it out, backing slowly and deliberately toward the center of the tent, keeping the knight at the corner of his vision. His warning of catastrophe would be only slightly delayed, through Gwaine; he focused his attention on this distraction.

Melwas' presence was all in his shoulders. Broad in his youth, probably, they were now bowed under a sense of greed or bitterness or both. The man had dark hair untouched as yet by gray, short and straight and thick as his eyebrows over black beady suspicious eyes and a beak of a nose. Large hands, and the rest of his fifty-something frame unremarkable.

"If you care to step out of the rain," Leon said, gesturing. Leon who was invaluable because he could be unfailingly courteous to his worst enemy.

As far as Arthur was concerned, that was what Melwas was. He clenched his teeth to keep his expression neutral, clenched his left hand resting on the hilt of his sword, as Melwas ducked into the pavilion. He glanced over Arthur almost negligently, then noted each of the others present as well, as if the other knights held as much interest for him as the prince.

Abruptly, Sir Gosyn snarled an obscene insult and launched himself forward, half-drawing his weapon. Arthur had anticipated something of that nature – in spite of the knight's training to the code of honorable conduct - and Percival was positioned and prepared to catch the shorter knight and bodily prevent him from challenging Melwas.

"Sir Gosyn, we meet again," Melwas drawled in a nasal-influenced voice. "It is good to see you looking so well and… vigorous."

"You'll have to pardon my knight," Arthur said deliberately. "You ambushed his command on a peaceful mission and abducted his charge, the Lady Guinevere of Summarlynd – it is something he takes very personally."

The lord didn't seem to catch Arthur's double meaning. "A clever man takes an opportunity for profit when it presents itself," Melwas returned with a sneering smile.

"Not a noble one," Arthur couldn't help but saying. It wouldn't help negotiations to antagonize Melwas, but it would help Merlin to keep the attention of the lord of the fortress here on the camp of Camelot.

Melwas shrugged, hunching his huge shoulders in an awkward-looking manner. "I have no heir of my blood," he said. "Nobility does me little good these days… were you aware that you and I were rivals for the lady's hand?"

Arthur allowed that to sink in, but not affect him. "I did not know that," he said.

Melwas' sneer deepened. "No. It was hardly common knowledge. For how could _I_ … compete with _you_." He gestured disparagingly at Arthur.

"Is that what you wish?" Arthur asked. "A competition, with Guinevere as prize?"

"I volunteer!" Gosyn spoke up, drawing Melwas' attention, as Arthur's. The young knight leaned forward, Percival's big arms still restraining him, an eager feral grin on his face. "If there is to be a single combat, I volunteer to be Lady Guinevere's champion!"

Melwas did not look offended by the interruption, and so Arthur did not bother reprimanding Sir Gosyn. The young man would probably feel enough shame after the heat of this moment cooled – or maybe, it was from shame he spoke.

"That is interesting," the lord said. "Sir Gosyn was a child of Summarlynd, did you know that, Prince Arthur. How very noble for him to champion his childhood friend. Isn't it."

Arthur was not about to stake Guinevere's future on Gosyn's wounded honor, temporarily questionable judgment, and average battle skills. "If anyone fights, it will be me," he stated, mildly but firmly. "Is that what you want then? A trial-by-arms, for the lady's hand?"

Wide lips spread over long crooked teeth. "Come now, Prince Arthur," Melwas said, almost happily. "How many years has it been, since you were bested? How could I hope to find comparable talent in my modest following? And if I did, would not your death bring the full weight of your father's army down upon me to stomp my home into the mud?"

"What then?" Arthur said wearily.

Melwas tipped his head, crafty look in place. "You received my offer, did you not?"

"I did. And you must know, the sum you requested was absurd. I am prepared to offer you a tenth part, which you may take possession of immediately, upon return of the lady to our protection." He'd brought twice as much as this claim, but it was both wise and clever to leave himself room to bargain.

"Absurd, you say." Melwas nodded almost absently. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, have you heard that? And so is value. I might value Summarlynd's daughter for a single night of warmth and sport, nothing more."

Gosyn growled; Arthur was not surprised to see Percival's gloved hand covering the bottom half of the young knight's face.

"Do you know," the lord continued, almost conversationally, "one might assume from his behavior and from yours, that he places more value on the lady's virtue, than does her betrothed."

"Were it up to me," Arthur said pleasantly, his fingers beginning to numb from their grip on his hilt, "I might offer you my kingdom."

"And then take it from me by force the next day," Melwas said slyly. "Have me drawn and quartered, or burned to death or buried alive… or simply beheaded."

Arthur could not help baring his teeth in a wolf's smile. "Unfortunately, the question is not merely whatever subjective value I might place upon Guinevere's life and safety, but what lies within my power to deliver. And your request, is not."

Melwas shrugged, and made to turn away. "Come back when it is, then. Perhaps I shall have an heir by that time, after all."

Percival grunted, and hissed.

A bit desperate, and not only to pass more time, Arthur said, "A fifth part."

"Not even close," Melwas tossed over his shoulder, stopping just on the edge of the dripping rain.

Arthur, for his part, didn't move. If he moved, it might be to draw blade and sheathe it in the lord's body – which would not be good for Guinevere's safety, or the messenger that remained within the fortress as surety for Melwas' safety during their conversation. Or Arthur's own honor, come to think of it. But now he knew, at least, that Guinevere's abduction was as much about humiliating him personally, as any monetary profit Melwas might think to make.

"You would do well to reconsider, Melwas," he warned in a low voice. "I will have her back from you one way or another, and repay whatever insult has been offered her tenfold upon your own body."

"Save your breath, prince," Melwas sneered. "We're only talking now because you can't take my fortress and make good on your threats. I am within my rights to offer protection to young ladies I find crossing my land, and to require those who claim them to demonstrate their honorable intentions with a price. Is it my fault that you're too poor to prove your love, or that your father does not consider her worthy enough to make the effort?"

"When next we see each other," Arthur said, burning with furious calm, "it will not be under conditions of truce, and I will kill you."

Melwas scoffed, hunching his shoulders as he stepped into the rain, not even bothering to look back. "We will not see each other again, Pendragon."

Arthur stood very still, watching water and mud splash around the lord's boots as he rejoined the handful of men wearing his insignia of the green owl, to head back to the causeway where their horses waited. Deliberately he uncurled cramped fingers from his hilt, and stalked back to the front edge of the pavilion.

"Nothing to report, sire," Gwaine said from his position two paces behind Arthur, at the corner of the tent and facing outward, though only he and Leon and Percival would know what their comrade meant. No sign of Merlin's failure, at least, and that was reason to hope.

Percival released Gosyn, who adjusted his armor and tunic viciously and needlessly. "Let go of me," he snarled belatedly, and stomped closer to Arthur. "Sire, that was – that was –"

Probably worse than a waste of time, Arthur agreed, but a waste of time had been what they needed. What Merlin needed – and this time Arthur counted on his friend's success, rather than his own. But – sympathetically – Gosyn could not know that. Maybe after, if Merlin was willing to reveal a bit more. Tell his own tale, this time, claim his own credit.

"What would you have had me do?" he said mildly.

Gosyn stared at him for several moments. Then he rounded on Leon – a movement somewhat lacking in impact, given their disparity in height. "There's an alehouse in Auldkirk, isn't there?" he asked. Leon nodded, his eyes on Arthur, but Gosyn continued, a bit belligerently, "Then that's where you can find me if you need me." Belatedly he added, with the same sort of over-the-shoulder disrespect Melwas had shown, "With your permission of course, my lord."

"Report back before dark," Arthur said only, and the young knight strode into the rain, heading nearly the same direction as the enemy lord, but angling toward the village.

"Should I go keep an eye on him?" Gwaine suggested, but without levity.

"It might be easier for him if you lost your temper," Leon observed. "He probably wants to _feel_ punished. A heated public reprimand, a thorough trouncing in training –"

"He's injured," Arthur reminded him. "No, Gwaine, leave him alone. He'll get over it, and learn from it, hopefully."

"Provided Merlin and my lady return safely," Percival said quietly.

Arthur's eyes returned to the shape of the hill-fortress. Something unmistakable. Nothing yet. He wondered what was going on inside, and tried to steel himself to wait.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin woke disoriented, with a nebulous but very real dread - the feeling that he'd ruined something important irrevocably through negligence.

His sleep felt deep but brief, by the woolly sensation behind his eyes and in his mouth. His body was wedged in a window-well, between the thick cloudy glass panes and a pair of wooden shutters, half-closed to both allow him and hide him – and his first instinct was to look for the ladybug. To attribute sore and stiff muscles to the awkwardness of his position.

But no, he wasn't in Camelot – the casement stone was dark and thick and rough, by comparison. He peered through rain-smeared glass, finding one piece clearer than the rest, but no lower town nestled up to citadel walls for protection. If he craned he could see the squat roofs of a village in the distance to one side, but nothing of the encampment of the forces of Camelot… outside the fortress of Havallach… which he'd entered after an entire night of crawling through the mud and swimming watery underground mazes.

He couldn't tell the time, the sun was so obscured behind clouds. Urgency rose toward panic, and he scrabbled mentally for the pattern of reverberation that was supposed to have been leading him to Gwen. He heard it – close, a level above but not directly overhead – and voices also. Recognition caught at his attention, and the mentioned name of the prince his friend held it fast.

"…Thought Arthur would simply let you keep your prize if you won?"

A nasally voice, but deep, as though the speaker had great lung capacity, but the passages of outlet were pinched.

"And I thought you were just in it for the gold!" a companion voice retorted. That one seemed familiar to Merlin, but he couldn't place it. None of his friends, but of course he'd only recognize a voice he'd heard in Camelot… "Why didn't you negotiate?"

"Keep the prince on his toes," the first voice responded carelessly. "Tomorrow he'll be more desperate."

"Where will you come down off your high horse if he's already offered you what he has?"

Shuffle-clink-grunt. Silence. Merlin breathed through his mouth and leaned forward, the better to hear, but careful of disturbing the shutter and betraying his presence.

"You best remember that I am sovereign lord of my estates, and you but a foresworn knight," the nasal voice threatened. "When I have every last coin of my gold, you may have your more tarnished goods, hm?"

"It would have been easier if the Pendragons admitted they have no care for her personally," the familiar voice snarled.

A negligent click of the tongue startled Merlin; it was very near his native language, and distracted him momentarily.

"They may have no care for her personally, but they do for their reputation," the nasal voice sounded self-satisfied. "Which will suffer right along with their coffers."

"It might have been better to choose combat," the second grumbled sullenly. "Even if he pays you for her and even if he allows me to –" thick sneer – "redeem my honor and hers, by marrying her, he won't forget the insult."

"I don't fear Arthur Pendragon," dismissively. "But if you do, by all means take your opportunity when it comes."

In the silence Merlin could both hear and feel the footsteps take up a sauntering gait again – that would pass by his window. He held very still, not even daring to peer out, in case one or the other felt the weight of his gaze.

"If you can keep your mouth shut, no one else will have reason to suspect our deal," the familiar voice answered. "But the murder of a prince is a different matter. I don't know, Melwas, I just don't like it. Something feels wrong. Yesterday Arthur was tense and panicked with anger – you could see it if you knew what to look for. He couldn't keep his eyes off this fortress for more than a moment. Today, he was still watching, but… calm."

"He doesn't suspect you?"

The footsteps passed, and Merlin resisted the urge to lean forward, try to see the men in such treasonous conversation. If the voice was familiar to him, it was possible that he'd be recognized in turn, and that was… disaster. More so than if he was taken for one of Melwas' servants lazing about and innocently overhearing what he wasn't meant to. He moved one hand only, shifting to unlace his shirt so he could easily reach his knife if he needed to.

"No, it isn't that."

"And you've no reason to believe he's found the passage?"

"It might be better if he did. We could trap him and wait for him to starve or suffocate."

"Wouldn't work." Pinched scorn. "Arthur is too clever for that; he'd leave men to make sure his retreat was covered. No – don't worry, it all goes to plan. You should return to Auldkirk, and prepare for whatever tomorrow brings."

"Yes, my lord."

The footsteps separated. One man continued, unhurried, the other retraced their route. Merlin waited til both had faded from hearing, then pushed the wooden shutter from the window and unfolded himself stiffly.

He had a choice now, whether to try to get a look at the man who sounded familiar – but it seemed to him, his priority was Gwen. Hesitating only a moment, he followed the cadence that was slower but heavier, also – and headed for the light tap-tapping Merlin had assumed was Gwen.

"You, there."

Merlin froze, but a quick glance showed no one in sight, and he didn't believe he'd been heard.

"Fetch a meal-tray from the kitchens, only the best, but enough to feast two."

A faintly agreeable feminine murmur, a flurry of hurried footsteps retreating further into the fortress; Merlin was still undiscovered. He crept to the end of the corridor, glanced both ways down the hall it intersected to be sure it was at least temporarily deserted, then around the corner to an enclosed stair.

The man who ascended looked large from below and behind, though not so straight as Percival; he wore short dark hair, and the finest of clothing, it seemed to Merlin. From that and from the conversation – and the fact that he did not recognize this man visually – Merlin assumed Melwas. He disliked the man already and intensely, despite having never seen his face, for the way he spoke of Arthur – and of Gwen.

At the top of the stair Melwas turned, moving out of Merlin's line of sight, hand reaching for his belt in a jingle of metal. As soon as the way was clear, Merlin darted up the stair, clumsy in the soreness of his body, each hand on the wall to balance himself against a noisy and revealing fall. Again he peered around the wall of the stair, that rose to meet the ceiling of the upper passage, seeing the stoop-shouldered hulk of the enemy lord just pushing through a chamber door, keys in hand.

"Good day, my lady," he was saying, in a sneering way that raised the hairs on Merlin's neck.

The beacon-rhythm stopped. Merlin hadn't understood exactly what Melwas intended to do with Gwen, but he knew it could be nothing good. Something that the lord believed would make Arthur change his mind about marrying her – but honestly, Merlin couldn't imagine what that might be. Though Melwas didn't sound like he believed Arthur truly loved Gwen either – that, or he didn't understand love.

Taking a chance, he skipped across the corridor from the stair to the chamber door, edging the toe of his boot into the space so it wouldn't close completely, but might remain overlooked by those inside the room, still hidden from his view.

"I am not your anything, Melwas." That was Gwen's voice, and she sounded angry – both facts cheered Merlin.

"My prisoner," the nasal voice crowed. "My flower, my pet… The Pendragons care so little for you – they have so far declined to pay your ransom, did you know that?"

"You lie!" Gwen flashed.

"I'm afraid not," Melwas said, more gleeful than apologetic.

"Arthur is out there right now! Isn't he…" If Gwen had gotten his message, she should feel sure of Arthur's presence – though this room's windows probably didn't face the rows of Camelot's tents. And she wouldn't want to betray her contact with them through Merlin's message, either.

"Ah, don't make this any harder than it has to be," the man said, his voice simultaneously coaxing and threatening. "I've nothing against you personally, no wish to hurt you –"

"Keep your hands off me!"

Merlin pushed on the door carefully, to keep it from making any noise – alert to the sound of anyone else approaching from hall or stair, the position of those inside the room and their potential awareness of him.

"Come now, stop fighting, and it won't be so bad." More irritable, more sinister. "Surely someone will still be willing to make an honest woman out of you."

Bedchamber, Merlin knew, from the corner of the mattress and one of the curtain-supporting posts, between his position in the doorway, and the speakers, not-quite-sideways to him. Gwen's orange-pink finery and long curly hair was disheveled, her expression a mix of defiance and fear, eyes fastened to the face of the man who pursued her retreat step by step. Melwas still had his back mostly to Merlin as he prowled forward, cornering the lady.

His hand reached for Gwen, fingers outstretched. Reached not for shoulder or arm, but the front of her dress, right over her heart – he grabbed a rough handful of fabric, and hauled her body right up next to his.

Panic sparked in her dark eyes, her mouth dropped open in gasp. Her hands came up in a futile attempt to ward him off.

Merlin acted without a second thought.

He sprinted across the room, fingers freeing his stone knife, and leaped onto the bigger man from behind - slamming into the other's back, then using his impetus to turn them both away from Gwen. Left hand yanking the head back by forehead and hair –

Right hand slicing his blade neatly, viciously, deeply across the throat.

The man writhed between Merlin's arms and against his body, blood spraying obscenely across cabinet, floor, rug – blood didn't do that in the water, it only seeped and stained in an avoidable cloud. Merlin couldn't think to do anything but cling to his victim as the man tumbled forwards, on his knees, on his face, dragging Merlin down in a weltering confusion of blood.

He gulped twice, and the corpse was still.

Scrambling back to break the gruesome contact of touch – entirely too much on thin vulnerable skin _all over_ – Merlin realized that Gwen was breathing in little whimpering gasps. He tried to forget himself to focus on her, but his legs were still tangled with the lord's body as he turned on one hip, to see her smothering her shock with both hands over her mouth.

"It's me," he managed. "Gwen, it's me. It's Merlin."

"Oh!" she said, a release of relief, not delayed recognition. She knelt by him in a rush, helping him drag himself further away from the body.

"I'm sorry," he added. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that, maybe, I shouldn't have – I – I should've hurried, should've gotten here faster. I'm sorry, I'm – oh." He realized he was babbling, and clenched his jaw shut, turning away - and squeezing his eyes shut when they fell upon Melwas.

Dead. He'd killed creatures before, for necessary food or defense, but never another sentient being. A human dead, and at Merlin's hand. And done in front of a lady.

She clung to him for a moment of shuddering breaths; he tried to take comfort in her soft warmth in return. Then he felt her hands flutter over his shoulders, touching his hair, caressing his face in a wiping motion.

"Are you okay?" he said. "Gwen, please tell me you're okay, he didn't – they didn't – hurt you, or anything?"

"No." Her hands rested on either side of his face. "Merlin, look at me. Look at me." When he opened his eyes, unexpected tears slipped down his face. That was probably all right, though, her own eyes brimmed full and her cheeks were wet also. "I'm fine. I'm completely fine, thanks to you. Calm down, and breathe –" she breathed with him, exaggerated reassurance – "He didn't hurt me. Or anything."

"Good." Merlin nodded, and sagged back exhausted against the wall. "Good. Arthur sent me to… rescue you." He noticed that blood covered his hands and sleeves and the knife he still gripped, making the hilt stick to fingers and palm. That bothered him. It didn't do that in the water, kills were clean in the water.

Gwen was on her feet, moving past him, moving past the corpse, holding the damaged skirt of her orange-pink dress away from Melwas, sparing his body a glance and a grimace. "How did you find me? How did you get in? I found your leaf-message at the window, but I have to say, I didn't really understand. I didn't know if I should hope…"

Merlin braced himself on the wall and pushed unsteadily to his feet, the stone a bruising comfort against his back. "The waterways, under the hill," he said. "I came up a well, I think."

She returned with a water-pitcher, but stayed on the other side of the bed, beckoning with her other hand full of cloths. "Come over here, can't you."

He couldn't think how to, without getting the bedclothes bloody – but oh, she wouldn't be sleeping here tonight anyway. Someone would have to clean them… but with the lord of the fortress dead on the floor, he supposed laundry was not going to be an immediate concern. Stiffly and awkwardly he clambered across the soft blankets and mattress, feeling clumsy as a child in sand for the first time.

She helped him arrange his limbs in a position seated on the edge of the bed, hands extended so she could ease his knife from his grasp. Rinsing it and setting it aside, she rolled his sleeves until the blood at the cuffs didn't show, and began to wash his skin. He noticed his hands were trembling.

"We should go," he said abruptly. On the second attempt he stayed on his feet, but she pressed him back down easily, even gently.

"What's the plan?" She patted his hands dry with a second cloth.

He wondered if there was a reason she was so focused on the task – if it was to avoid looking at him, or the body. It occurred to him that he ought not to have let a lady perform such for him.

"Out the same way," he told her. "Down to the wells, through the water, back to Arthur and the camp." She met his eyes then, a pinched anxious wrinkle between her dark brows. "I can protect you. It'll be wet and muddy and disgusting but not dangerous I promise and even though it may take all night again we'll be safe, but we should go because Melwas sent someone to bring lunch so they're probably _coming_ –"

"Female servant?" Gwen asked; Merlin nodded. She looked down at herself, over at the corpse, back toward the door. "Did it take you all night to get inside this fortress?" He nodded again. "When did you last eat?"

It seemed a very odd question; he stared, puzzled, and his stomach answered before he did. "I had… rations, with Percival and Gwaine. At noon…"

"Yesterday?" she guessed. "Okay, this is what we're going to do. You're going to lie down and rest –" As she spoke she bent to scoop up his lower legs; balance betrayed him, and to avoid kicking her he tipped as she lifted, ignoring his protest. "I trust you'll take care of me, but you'll do a better job if you get some sleep and something to eat. Let me handle this, okay?"

He kept tipping, and the touch of the pillow was magnetic, as she pushed his boots onto the mattress. "Gwen…"

She ruffled his hair, quickly but briefly, and even dropped a kiss on the corner of his temple. Then she picked up his knife, and moved back toward the door, to sit on her heels where the wooden panels would obscure her when it opened.

"Don't fight it," she told him; already she was an orange-pink blur in his vision. "We probably don't have long…"

Merlin closed his eyes.


	15. The Scent of Success

**Chapter 6: The Scent of Success**

" _Out the same way," he told her. "Down to the wells, through the water… It'll be wet and muddy and disgusting... but we should go because Melwas sent someone to bring lunch so they're probably coming –"_

" _Female servant?" Gwen asked; Merlin nodded. She looked down at herself, over at the corpse, back toward the door… "When did you last eat?"_

" _I had… rations, with Percival and Gwaine. At noon…"_

" _I trust you'll take care of me, but you'll do a better job if you get some sleep and something to eat. Let me handle this, okay?" She picked up his knife, and moved back toward the door, to sit on her heels where the wooden panels would obscure her when it opened. "Don't fight it," she told him. "We probably don't have long…"_

 _Merlin closed his eyes._

Weariness crashed down on him like a waterfall, bearing him to the seafloor, rolling him over and over til he was dizzy and half-choked with sand. He tried to flip his tail, to writhe out from under the pounding weight of water, but his tail was split and stiff, heavy and sore, and he struggled unsuccessfully. His gills began to clog, and he tried to brush them clean with his fingertips – softly and patiently at first, then more frantically as his blood raced oxygen-starved through his pulse points.

He was dying.

Underwater, and dying, and he'd never been so scared because he was alone, _alonealonealone_ his father far distant and Arthur on land and no one knew where he was and he couldn't die grim and silent but he had no breath to yell and –

Somewhere close by, an owl screeched its failure to kill. Or was it the rabbit dying in its talons?

Merlin lurched upright in the bed, reaching automatically for his knife – which was in Gwen's hand - Outstretched menacingly, as she pushed the door shut with her other.

There was a girl in the room, dressed in faded green and carrying a tray of covered dishes. A girl with bitten-shut lips and saucer-wide eyes darting between Gwen and Merlin and a point on the floor where probably lay the body of her master.

"Don't scream again," Gwen ordered, drawing herself up. "We don't mean to hurt you. Melwas is dead, you can see, and we'll be gone in an hour. Don't try to stop us, and you'll be fine."

The girl jerked her head in a nod of agreement, and darted Merlin another fearful glance as he pushed himself up from the bed – slowly, but it seemed his nap had done some good. "What are you, how did you get in here," she blurted.

Startled, Merlin frowned slightly at Gwen, who ignored the question to issue another order. "Set the tray on the bed, and shut yourself in the wardrobe."

The girl bit her lips shut again. Dishes clattered as she shoved the tray to the mattress, and scurried across the room to the large cabinet by the window. Merlin took his knife from Gwen and slid it back into the sheathe beneath his shirt, leaving it unlaced.

"Go ahead and eat... it looks like there's enough there for two," Gwen observed, beginning to follow the girl – then pausing across the rug from Melwas. "If I wasn't a lady, I'd _kick_ you," she said down to the cooling corpse.

Merlin bent over the tray, lifting lids to find things he recognized – bread and cheese, bite-size chunks of dark roasted meat wrapped with bacon – and others he didn't. Cut fruit or vegetables, maybe – one bland and almost musty-tasting, the other crisp and tangy. He listened to the murmur of Gwen's voice without hearing what she said, until she called across the room.

"Keep your back turned, please, Merlin."

He stopped himself instinctively disobeying before her meaning sunk in, and obligingly kept his eyes on the tray. Dividing generous portions for her as well, he tried to remember manners in his sudden and surprising hunger.

Then he heard footsteps, and she said, "That's better."

He turned and backed a step, as she leaned over the tray to help herself to the rest of the food. She was dressed in the maid's clothes, a simple white shirt under a plain green dress, and her dark hair mostly tucked under the cap. He opened his mouth and said, "Good idea." The better to avoid notice, to keep any accidental encounters casual.

"I left her mine," Gwen said, eating hungrily but daintily with her fingers. "It's payment enough – none of this is really her fault."

"I was thinking," he went on. "If their lord and leader is dead, could we – I don't know – just walk out and demand to be allowed to return to Arthur?"

She made a negative noise, and swallowed before answering. "We shouldn't risk it. They may kill you for this, and make Arthur ransom me anyway. Or hold us both for more gold. It's probably a better than even bet we'd have to fight if we wanted to leave through the front doors."

"Oh." Human relations were turning out to be always more complicated than he anticipated. "When you're ready, then," he added, hoping the food would settle a little better in his belly eventually. "I'm not completely certain I can find my way back, though we can probably avoid Melwas' people for the most part…"

"I'll carry the tray," Gwen told him. "Then no one should pay us any attention. Since I was brought here, I've only seen _him_ , and that serving girl."

No sound from the wardrobe. Merlin wondered if he ought to ask about the familiar-sounding other. A traitor, he thought, having planned her abduction with Lord Melwas beforehand, thinking to gain something…

"But come here," she added. "Can you do something about _that_?" He stepped to her side, and she turned him to face a mirror hanging on the wall.

"Oh," he said again, blankly. He turned his head, the better to see – gill-slits in the side of his neck, scales starting under his chin and jaw, glittering faint and light, but the blue showing down his breastbone through the unlaced collar of his shirt was distinct. No wonder the maid had reacted startled.

"You had a nightmare?" she questioned softly.

"I don't know…" This had never happened to him before, starting to change or making a partial change, unintentionally. But now was not the time to worry about it. He concentrated – shivered, stretched, gulped – and mostly disguised a panicky fumbling for absent gills, with a gesture that brushed off the layer of loosened scales.

"All right," Gwen said, picking up the tray. She looked tired herself, and anxious – though he couldn't tell whether that was for what had already happened to her, or what was about to – but determined. "Let's go."

They didn't speak, as Merlin led the way back to the stair, down and around the corner to the window-corridor. From there, it was a reversal of his journey upward – though they hid in plain sight behind the servant pretence, more often than behind doors or corners. More of the servants addressed Gwen with simple greetings or questions, which she handled with more confidence than Merlin felt. He kept in her shadow for these encounters, eyes down and shy smile on his face.

Downward, always. Gwen seemed to have a fair instinct for direction and placement of staircases in the fortress – and the closer they got, the more sure Merlin became of the subtle ripples of water on stone, below them.

"This way," he said at last, pinching Gwen's sleeve to redirect her.

She hesitated only a moment – and only because she was looking for the nearest surface to abandon the tray on. Then she followed.

Through the door, Merlin paused to listen and _feel_ the space, air and stone and water. "I don't think anyone else is down here."

Gwen turned to hurriedly stack several buckets before the door. "So we'll hear if anyone comes."

He led her down the rough-cut stairway-ramp, trying to resist the scent and ripple of the water so he wasn't dragging her too quickly behind him, cautioning, "Careful, it's slippery."

Her hand in his was tight with tension, and the graceless shuffling of their footsteps echoed from the damp stone walls. Near the bottom, as the shimmering surface of the pool came into sight, he released her to shrug out of the strap of his shoulder-pouch and seated himself to remove his boots.

"Into the water, and down," Gwen said, her voice small and whisper-eerie. "And then swim?"

"Yes," he said, shoving the boots into the bottom of the pouch, clumsy in his eagerness. "Once we're out of here, we're safe, trust me." He met and held her eyes, smiling to reassure her trepidation. "I'm going to change halfway back – enough so I can breathe in the water, a little more than you saw before. But for you I'll form and hold a bubble of air around your head. Then I'll swim for both of us, and you can hold onto me, if you feel more comfortable with that than me holding on to you."

He reached for the back of his collar and dragged the shirt over his head, shivering in the damp chill and the longing that radiated bones-to-skin, for his natural form. She looked down at her servant's dress hiding finer boots, then at the pouch and discarded shirt, reaching absently to pull the cap off her hair and drop it on the stone stair.

"You're taking off all your clothes?" she said, and he couldn't tell if she was offended or amused.

"Scales, you see," he explained. "And that way the clothes won't weigh me down in the water."

Both hands at her sides gathered up fistfuls of skirt material. "Do you mind…" she began. "I mean, do you think it would be better for me to wear – the shirt and trousers, than all this?"

They had til dawn before Arthur began to worry. And while there wouldn't be the need for haste that there was before, he couldn't ignore the physical difficulty of the journey. Times two. "Yeah, all right," he said.

She turned her back, and he slipped out of the trousers, leaving them puddled on the stone next to the shirt and pouch. And plunged into the well.

His body weight took him a good fathom-and-a-half down, and he laughed into the water for the pleasure of the cool liquid, shuddering as his scales rippled out over his body, as the webbing advanced between his fingers and his gills opened. It felt like taking a deep breath – but he had to fight again, against the physical desire to complete the transformation, and that sobered him swiftly.

Once he felt his control was firm, he allowed himself to rise to the surface again, making sure to face away from Gwen on the stair. He floated for only a moment – a blissful, weightless, triumphant moment – before she said breathlessly, "I'm ready."

Merlin turned, water swirling around him, to see her barefoot, in his trousers and shirt – tied up to the throat and sleeves still rolled – stuffing the maid's clothing into the pouch. He kicked to her side as she finished and tightened the mouth of the sack, then seated herself on the stair and lowered her feet into the water.

"Too cold?" he asked, reaching to sling the strap of the pouch over his head and one arm; it bobbed on the surface behind him.

She shook her head, but her breathing was quickened, and her eyes were large – he thought she was trying to see into the water, perhaps to the bottom, perhaps to guess what to expect.

"This is me," he said, showing her his hands and arms – dark blue scales, webbing and long nails. "Don't be afraid. We'll start slow, I'll show you how the air bubble works and then –"

Wood on stone clatter, impatient exclamation, voices raised in conversation – all chasing their own echoes down to Merlin and Gwen.

Her mouth opened in a gasp – he reached for her and she braced herself, hands on his forearms. As he steadied her drop into the water, he saw people – one, three, four – on the stair, descending in a careless hurry. Stopping dead to point and shriek –

Merlin wrapped Gwen's arms around his ribs and lifted his webbed hands through the water, lowering them more rapidly than he'd initially intended. She squeaked and struggled but clung, and he repeated the gesture again and again, down the well-shaft and almost to the spring itself at the bottom. He didn't stop until they were out of sight – he could see the dimmest circle of light far above, beyond the sphere of air, maybe half a fathom in diameter.

"Sorry," he said. Her entire body was tense and her eyes flitted here and there, but her breathing was controlled. "I meant to let you get used to the idea, before…" He gestured, and her grip tightened.

"No, it's fine," she managed. "We're – we're safe now?"

"Yes," he said. "Here, hold the straps if you like." He turned in her hold so that her body was against his back and he had a freer use of his arms. "It'll be dark, like I said, and muddy later on – we'll have to wait to surface til twilight's fading so we're not seen. If you need to stop or ask me something, let me know."

Her nervous giggle stirred a lock of wet hair by his ear, as she gripped the shoulder-strap in both hands – one by his collarbones, one over his ribs. "Imagine what they'll tell their friends that they saw."

"A monster?" he suggested wryly, finding the opening where he'd swam in, earlier that morning.

She coughed – or laughed, maybe, shivering as the water slid past them a little faster, and dim became dark again, even in the bubble of air. "A faerie, a creature of the underworld, snatching a human back to his own realm."

He grunted, preparing to duck out of her air, to keep it fresher for her, and to better feel his way back to Arthur. "As long as no one says, _mer-person_."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur slept less the second night Merlin was gone than he had the first.

Something unmistakable. He cursed internally, giving up on sleep and allowing his eyelids to spring open, though he saw nothing but dark between him and the tent material above. Of course there were watchmen – including one of the three knights who _knew_ – to inform him if something happened, but… Arthur was not very good at waiting, and leaving the risks and action to others.

He rolled from his blanket and cot, feeling for his boots where he'd dropped them some hours earlier, when Leon had convinced him, this attempt at slumber was necessary for many reasons. Shoving his feet into them, he headed east, past the main pavilion.

There were lanterns lit inside the larger tent, yet, and Gwaine was seated cross-legged at the open front facing the night-obscured mount. He glanced up from stroking a finer edge to the sword naked across his knees, then shook his head without speaking.

Arthur followed his gaze outward toward Havallach, then stepped slowly to the edge of the light and beyond, feeling the mud squish under the soles of his boots. He'd walked the area a bit in the afternoon yesterday, after the disaster of Lord Melwas' visit. Pointlessly, but at least it was movement, as it was now, when he simply could not kept _still_ , and wait.

He felt a physical pain, low in his throat or high in his chest, when he thought of the two somewhere in the warrens of the hill-fortress. Merlin he could argue himself into believing, could take care of himself and therefore was probably fine. The sea-prince was armed as well as disguised, knife and magic, capable of and motivated to protect himself.

But Guinevere.

It hurt more to think of her, to the point where breathing was a chore. From the initial battle and near-complete slaughter of her escort, to some form of imprisonment… if Arthur believed it was all about ransom, he could trust that she was being taken care of, with some degree of comfort and respect.

But it wasn't. Melwas hadn't even pretended to negotiate, made it clear that Guinevere's betrothal to Arthur had been a personal insult, and casually threatened to take advantage of Arthur's relative helplessness to protect the innocence of his bride-to-be.

She'd been taken. What would Arthur do if he recovered her only to find out she'd been _taken_?

And, if Merlin didn't return. The horizon was a suggestion now, a delineation of gray-shades. Take the village, house by house, and search for the hidden passage? Blast his way into the fortress with black powder and fight his way level by level and hall by hall – how many men would he lose, without a guarantee of success? Melwas could easily hurt Guinevere further before Arthur reached her, if he tried, and there still left the question of _why_ Merlin hadn't –

His ears alerted to a nearly inaudible sound. He squinted into the gloom, turning his head to better catch a repetition of it…

 _Splash_. Fish, or frog? A softer susurration, like the flutter of wings or a gasp of –

Arthur crouched suddenly to see a shape against the sky - moving through the swamp toward him, not just a tree swaying in the breeze. Upright, slender… human.

Alone.

His throat closed. His heart slammed against his ribs in useless denial – twice, thrice – the figure moved with relative freedom in the lower limbs, not clutching or struggling with skirts…

Only Merlin, then. What had happened? Hadn't she gotten his message, hadn't he been able to find her?

Arthur opened his mouth and called, in the soft anguish of heart-break, " _Merlin_ …"

And in that moment of incrementally better light, closer clarity, he noticed curves that Merlin didn't have, a long dark tail as of hair hanging over one shoulder –

"Arthur?" the call returned. Breaking on an exhausted desperation, but clearly feminine.

He gasped and leaped forward. She gave a little wordless cry, stumbled as she tried to quicken her pace – and then she was in his arms, crying and warm and trembling and wet and reeking of the swamp, but _here_.

"Are you all right?" he said into the tangle of her hair, adjusting balance as he tried to gather her more closely, and she clung, trying to do the same. "Are you hurt? Guinevere?"

"No. Oh, heavens, I've never been so tired… or filthy… or wretched, but –" breathing and caressing both seemed to gain a measure of control. "No, I'm not hurt."

Arthur breathed, and the knot of aching tension behind his breastbone began to unravel. "No one touched you?"

She inhaled, then let it out – and stilled in his arms. "No. But, Arthur, it was a near thing." The whisper against his neck was shy with something not unlike shame. "If it wasn't for Merlin –"

"Is it them – are they back?" Gwaine's voice – raised to reach them, but not to rouse the camp – interrupted. His footsteps splashed in approach.

"Come back to the light," Arthur said to her. "Where's Merlin?"

"He was magnificent," she said breathlessly, one hand curled around Arthur's neck as he turned and began to lead her, his arm still hugging her waist for support and contact. Gwaine reached them and hovered – ready to help with Guinevere or plunge further into the swamp in search of their friend. "He brought me out the way he came in, I guess, down a well and then – oh, we swam forever and the mud was endless and sticky, but I could always breathe, Arthur, always. He was so cheerful, but so tired –"

"You're wearing his clothes," Gwaine said from her other side, as they reached the circle of lamplight from the pavilion. He moved sideways, as thought to continue his watch toward the hill and fortress.

Arthur looked down at her, trousers and shirt clinging to her and coated in muck. He realized she carried Merlin's drawstring pouch over one shoulder, as well.

"Yes," she agreed. "I've got a dress in here, it's probably soaked and filthy – he undressed anyway to swim in his scales – Arthur I've never seen or felt anything like that, he's incredible –"

"Where _is_ he?" Arthur interrupted gently.

"He was going straight to Gwaine and Percival's tent," she answered finally, looking up at him.

Arthur thought, _oh good_ , even as his attention focused on her – curly hair tangled and disheveled and more than one lock dripping with muddy water. Smears across her face and exhaustion plain – just now she was a far cry from the lovely lady of court he'd always seen, but he loved her so much it took his breath away. Her _strength_ and spark and spirit, there was so much more to her than outward beauty or even grace and charm and poise. He would never have chosen to see or prove that under these circumstances, but it was there and he was proud of her; he pulled her immediately into another full embrace, holding her close and tight.

"So the boy is naked except for mud," Gwaine said, concerned but amused. "I'll go help see to him, if I may, sire?"

Arthur nodded to grant Gwaine's request. He needed to see Merlin too, thank him and make sure he was taken the best care of, but for now Merlin had two of his best knights. Gwen was Arthur's priority.

"I knew you'd come," she sighed.

"But I didn't." He shuffled her arms tighter around his shoulders, turned his face blindly into her neck. "I sent Merlin." She hummed contentedly, and he added, "What do you need? What I can do for you?"

"I want to wash," she said, the last word almost a groan. "And then sleep all day. And I'd probably sleep better on a full stomach. Oh, Arthur, what a horrible journey." She shuddered, and he soothed, even knowing that she would probably need to break down and cry several times over the next few days, before she could truly recover from her ordeal.

"My tent is yours," he said, not letting go but leading her gently and slowly - she was a bit clumsy in her weariness, and seemed no more willing to release her hold on him. Which he didn't mind. Through the pavilion they went, out the back flap, bending as he held the material out of the way for her. "We brought two maidservants from Camelot for your service – they can get you anything you need."

His tent was two paces from the pavilion; he hesitated, holding her hand as a wordless request for her to wait and listen. Though perhaps he should speak to her later – the sky was lightening and the sun would show any moment and she would be busy washing and eating and sleeping anyway.

"I might be very busy today," he told her. "We've got you back safely and Havallach is a fortress but we can't simply leave without dealing with Melwas in some –"

"Oh!" Her eyebrows flew up and her free hand covered her mouth briefly. "I forgot to say, earlier. Melwas is dead."

Dead. Arthur felt relief before he'd consciously processed the word and its significance for their situation.

She went right on. "He came to the chamber where I was being held yesterday just before noon and – and threatened me –" her eyes dropped and her color heightened noticeably even in the dim light.

Arthur's reaction to the implication was interrupted.

"My lady?"

They both looked up to see a short knight halted sideways in the row between tents, eight or ten paces away, as if he'd been walking past, and the sight of them had arrested his movement.

"Oh, Gosyn!" Guinevere said, in delighted relief, holding out one hand. He approached slowly, maybe from a sense of disbelief. "I didn't know if they'd killed everyone from my escort – were you hurt – oh, I'm so glad to see you're all right!"

Gosyn was finally close enough to take her hand, tentatively between both of his, and bowed his head. "Please forgive me, my lady," he said, his voice rough with emotion so that Arthur almost squeezed his shoulder – but sympathy from Arthur would not be what the young knight wanted.

"That's not necessary," she chided gently, gracious in spite of her filth and fatigue and men's clothes. "There's nothing to forgive. You all fought hard…" Tears glistened in her eyes.

"How can you say that?" he said hoarsely; the stiff set of the knight's shoulders resisted her excuse of him. "All the dishonor is mine, and I stand ready to make amends by offering for your hand –"

"What the devil are you on about?" Arthur said, mildly annoyed.

Gosyn lifted his head just enough to see their faces from under his brows, his eyes clearly traveling from Arthur to Gwen and back again, taking in the way they stood very nearly in the circle of each other's arms. "Your betrothal is unbroken?" he blurted.

"Why would it not be?" Arthur said stiffly. "The lady is unharmed." And even if she wasn't, no one would marry her but _him_ , unless she herself changed her mind.

"I see." Gosyn was surprised; Arthur tried to allow that a disinterested party might take the possible rape of a captive as a given more quickly and less emotionally than he did. "How – how on earth did you manage to escape, Lady Gwen? I thought I heard you say that Lord Melwas is dead?"

Guinevere gave Arthur a swift, uncertain glance, and he responded with the faintest of frowns and a slight twist of his head in the negative. Gosyn was probably as trustworthy as any of the knights, but Merlin's secrets weren't just his own – they belonged to a kingdom full of mer-people.

"Magic, Sir Knight, on both counts," she answered, quietly arch.

"Magic? Do you mean a sorcerer rescued you, and killed Melwas?" Gosyn asked, and Arthur permitted him the liberty of questioning the lady, in the moment of heightened feeling.

"A sorcerer of sorts," she answered. "But shy… and since I owe him my life and safety, I shall reveal no more of my hero."

Arthur could not help a snort at the word – though it was true and deserved – and she tugged on his hand in mild reproof.

Gosyn did not have the same reaction. His eyes darted between them again, and he stated uncertainly, "Our lord the king does not approve of sorcery, we have no magic-users among us."

"Then the sorcerer did not come from among us," Arthur countered evenly. "I will not question when good luck offers to favor me and mine." He leaned closer to her briefly, nudging her toward his tent. "Go on. This news changes things - but for the better, I hope." Though they would still have a busy morning, at least, she wouldn't be needed.

She smiled and brushed her fingertips down his sleeve, gave Gosyn a different smile, then ducked into the tent. Arthur turned to draw the shorter knight away.

"It shouldn't be hard to establish the fact of Melwas' death," Arthur said. And in that case – no, it could wait til he had time to think, and his trusted knights gathered in council. "Could you please have Guinevere's maidservants sent to my tent, with plenty of hot water and the best we have to offer for a meal? And have Leon meet me – he'll know where Sirs Gwaine and Percival have their tent, I'm going straight for them."

"Yes, my lord." Gosyn gave him a correct abbreviated half-bow, and trotted off, head down like a hound intent on following the trail his master set him to.

Arthur reversed his steps, hurrying now himself toward the small tent Gwaine and Percival shared at the edge of the encampment.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin sank to his knees as he watched Guinevere stagger her eager way toward the distant sparkle of light that was the pavilion's lanterns. Nothing worse than ankle-deep mud in her way now, and if he knew Arthur, the human prince would be waiting and watching and hoping – and might appreciate a more private reunion with his lady.

He could have tried to dry their clothing so they could switch back. But he wasn't sure the gray in his vision was entirely due to the predawn dim. He suspected he _held_ his grip on consciousness; his body felt like it might float away like a bubble on the breeze, or ooze lower and lower into the mud til he was buried.

Right now he couldn't tell if there were scales under the mud, yet, or not. He thought of _rain_ … but if control of the little bit of air and water necessary to dry a double handful of garments was beyond him, for sure enough rain to clean his skin – or scales – was also.

If he had the horn of Trytn, though, he could call a storm…

He shook his head, staggering to his feet and trying to head for a point several dozen paces to the right of the pavilion's glow. Silly. The horn was far distant, and not his to sound anyway.

Something caught his toes – submerged root, maybe – and he was too tired to stop himself tripping. His hands splashed open-palmed, catching the rest of him but splattering mud. In his mouth, this time. He spat, and breathed, and tried to muster the strength to rise again. If it wasn't for his pride…

Oh, who was he fooling? He was naked and exhausted and covered in mud.

Merlin crawled. Slowly, it seemed to him, and dizzily – he hoped he wasn't moving in circles.

Lifting his head to check, he could make out the peaked shapes of tents, dirty-gray against charcoal, but lightening. Just… before the motion unbalanced him, and he tumbled to the mud – managing at the last moment to turn his head and save his face.

Mostly. He rested, feeling drying mud crack as his body heaved with breathing.

It would be better to get inside the tent before it was light and everyone was moving around… He felt reverberation through the semi-solid earth beneath and around him, and opened his eyes, moving just enough to scratch through the mud on his forearm.

Skin. Hopefully that meant, all over.

"…Said he was coming to our tent." A voice he recognized, and smiled at the memory of the impish grin that habitually accompanied his friend's conversation.

Someone else spoke. Further away, so Merlin couldn't make out words. It occurred to him that he should move – he contemplated the idea curiously without implementing it.

"Well, she also said he was tired…" The voice was closer, the feel of footsteps faster. "Percival. Here he is."

Warm pressure on his shoulder, and he turned enough to blink at the man crouching over him, silhouette against lightening sky. "Hey, Gwaine," he breathed. "I'm back."

"Yeah, I can see that." Merlin heard the grin more clearly. "A bit the worse for wear, huh? You're not hurt?"

"I have no idea," Merlin told him, and shifted his gaze as Percival appeared, standing behind Gwaine. "Morning."

"That it is," the big knight agreed, then stepped over Merlin's body and reached for his arms. Merlin tried to raise them helpfully, with only questionable success. "We'll reserve judgment on whether it's _good_ , though."

"It's not _bad_." Merlin's joints locked to hold him upright, though he swayed in Percival's grip.

"Cheerful." Gwaine's tone made the word a joke Merlin didn't quite get. "Here."

The knight moved too swiftly for Merlin to follow what he was doing, so the length of fabric wrapped about Merlin's chest and covering most of him was a surprise. He looked down and saw red.

"What do you think, a bath and breakfast?" Percival suggested. "That sound good, Merlin? You must have one hell of a story to tell."

Merlin hummed agreeably as Gwaine ducked under his other arm, and attempting to move his feet in cooperation with the two knights, who were incredibly fast and graceful. He'd have to tell them about Melwas… the conversation he'd overheard, with the one who sounded familiar. "Can't I just sleep?" he said hopefully.

"You'll sleep better clean," Percival promised, and it reminded Merlin of something Arthur had said, long ago in a ship's cabin.

"You're not using any more of our clothing or bedding til you've been scrubbed," Gwaine said. Merlin made a mournful noise, watching his muddy bare feet shuffle and tremble across the ground very far below him, and the knight added, in a tone halfway between respectful and teasing, "You stink, my lord."


	16. Half the Battle

**Chapter 7: Half the Battle**

Neither Gwaine nor Percival was inside the tent when Arthur arrived. Neither of them noticed him til he was quite close, either.

Percival swung an empty wooden bucket by a rope handle, gazing thoughtfully into the distance, and Gwaine stood scowling at the ground, arms crossed over his chest. Arthur had the distinct impression they'd been discussing something for which they hadn't agreed upon a solution; as if what needed saying had been said, but they weren't ready to close the conversation, yet.

His thoughts leaped immediately to Merlin, and he called to them without preamble, "Is he all right? He's back, isn't he?"

"Sleeping," Percival said succinctly, gesturing to the tent flap.

Arthur believed him, but didn't pause, reaching to twitch the canvas aside to see for himself. And there wasn't much to see, just a thatch of black hair at one end of a sausage-roll of blankets, very still except for the rise and fall of breathing. Arthur let the flap fall closed again, so the brightening morning light would not disturb his rest.

"Plenty of soap and water on the outside, plenty of food and water on the inside," Gwaine said flippantly. "He's covered in scratches and bruises and run very literally into the ground. But, no lasting damage done, he'll be okay. How's Lady Gwen?"

"Probably about the same," Arthur said, and at the lift of Gwaine's eyebrows, pre-empted, ""Barring the bit about scratches and bruises – I can _guess_ , but I didn't _see_ , Gwaine."

"And she's not been harmed?" Percival said quietly.

Arthur breathed once, relieved beyond words to be able to answer, "Yes."

Gwaine shifted, alerting a second before Arthur heard the approaching footfalls; he twisted to watch as Leon joined them.

"They're back safe, and Melwas is dead?" the senior knight said, by way of greeting.

"Yes, and apparently," Arthur said again, before looking to the other two knights. "Did Merlin say anything to you about what happened, in there?"

"Yeah. Melwas is _lucky_ he's dead, the bastard," Gwaine said, uncharacteristically grim. "From what Merlin overheard – and I don't think he really _understood_ , Arthur – Melwas was all set to rape Guinevere, and it must have been less than an hour after he left here, yesterday morning. He made a grab for her, Merlin came in the door and stopped it happening. Cut the bastard's throat – _I_ think he died too quick."

Percival nodded his agreement; Leon breathed out in relief. Arthur's exterior was ice, but there was a fire of implacable fury beneath. He wished he'd been there.

"I think it bothers him, sire," Percival added suddenly. "I doubt he's ever had occasion to participate in a fight to the death – and that sea-monster hardly counts. Melwas is probably the first man he's ever killed. The first human, almost certainly."

Arthur gave his head a single regretful shake. Any of his knights might have done the same and felt no shame – though he might rationally have preferred a more honorable challenge - Gwaine at least was hot-headed enough to cut off the hand of a man touching a woman with violent impropriety, and ask later whether it was the sword hand. It was probably for the best that Arthur hadn't been there either, in that moment, he didn't want to contemplate what he _might_ have done. Merlin of course was not a fighter as the humans understood it, having never needed or learned to handle a sword, and of course still less than graceful when it came to his legs. If he had attempted to challenge Melwas – who so obviously did _not_ hold to the standards of the knights' code himself, even – it might have been disastrous.

And. Merlin was also a prince. He'd been born with the right of judgment, as Arthur had, and probably Balinor had trained him well in decision-making and action-taking. If the roles had been switched, Arthur would not feel the need to question the choices of Prince Baldyr, for instance, especially as the situation had resolved with the rescue of the lady and her virtue, and the death of her kidnapper at least, and would-be rapist.

"I'll speak to him later," he said softly. Though Merlin was sensitive anyway, and a first kill did tend to stay with a man, right or wrong, there was no reason for the younger man to feel _guilty_.

"Gosyn told me what Guinevere said about her escape," Leon interjected. "Magic was involved, but the identity of the user to remain secret. Is that how you want the question answered, if we're asked?"

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "It might help if you imply it was _outside_ help. Merlin and the two serving-girls are the only ones present in our company who aren't knights, and we all know none of us have any magical ability. Leon," he added, "I want you to take thirty men and ride to Havallach. Claim it for Camelot, since Melwas is dead and he has no heir, and demand their surrender."

"If they're inclined to be stubborn?" Leon queried.

"Send for me if you have to, but I trust you to handle it," he answered. Taking a moment to breathe, he rubbed both his eyes at the same time with the fingers of one hand – now that Merlin and Guinevere were both safe, he felt the lure of peaceful sleep also. He supposed he could wait. "Percival, keep an eye on Merlin. Gwaine, find Gosyn and get a dozen of our best ready to ride by midday. We'll let Guinevere and Merlin sleep this morning, travel easy this afternoon and camp early for the evening, but I want to be at least a few hours away from here by tonight. Leon, the rest of the men are under your command and at your disposal to take Havallach – by any means, if necessary. Keep me informed."

"Ah, Arthur," Gwaine said, as he and Leon both shifted to depart. "Another problem."

He glanced at Percival, who made an abortive motion and opened his mouth – only to close it again without saying anything. Well, if they hadn't disagreed about Merlin, then what?

"Merlin also overheard a conversation between Melwas and another, just before – well, just before," Gwaine said. "He was hidden, so he didn't see who it was, but he said it was a man who sounded familiar."

Leon shifted his weight. "Inside Havallach? Impossible."

Arthur was inclined to agree, though he believed Merlin's claim of perceived familiarity – simple enough to say someone sounded familiar, it didn't absolutely follow that the familiarity was fact. "Did he hear what they said?"

"A good bit." Gwaine glanced at Percival again. The big knight was more resigned than anything else; Arthur guessed that he had not wanted to share this information with Arthur, at least not yet. "Enough to guess that Melwas didn't come across Lady Gwen's escort by chance. This person knew Melwas' plan and aided it, and made use of the tunnel in Auldkirk to enter Havallach, at least the once, yesterday."

"A traitor," Arthur said, keeping his voice even. Leon looked troubled; his thoughts probably ran similar to Arthur's. The truth of that was bad enough to contemplate, but how were they to act based on only Merlin's word? Of course he trusted his friend implicitly – but that was not proof to anyone not standing with them, right now. Impossible to present, unlikely to be acceptable.

The problem was, the fact and timing of Guinevere's journey was common knowledge in Camelot, the route intuitive. He wouldn't have said _any_ of his men were capable of betrayal, either, even on this small scale of personal disloyalty and bribery. So that left only the motive as a starting point for discovery of a traitor… Unless Merlin had been honestly mistaken about what he heard. Still, the younger prince felt it important enough to tell Gwaine and Percival – and Gwaine at least had taken it seriously enough to feel that a warning to Arthur personally was merited.

"Why," he said. "Was there any mention made of the reward the man was to receive?"

"If it was, it wasn't clear to Merlin," Gwaine answered. "Though it sounded like Melwas cared about the gold of the ransom more than the lady, and expected that this incident would mean the end of your betrothal."

Arthur clenched his teeth. Yet another who thought he'd be more concerned with his own reputation, than Guinevere's wellbeing and future. It might have been true for another prince who hadn't fallen in love with the lady of the alliance suggested by their fathers. Well, it just meant they didn't know him as well as they thought.

"Leon and Percival, orders unchanged," he said. "Gwaine, keep this in mind when you're choosing our escort – I'd sooner have such a man close, than remaining here. Perhaps with his plan ruined, this man will return to behaving as a loyal knight for the rest of his life – but I'd prefer to discover him now and not leave him walking the same halls as the future queen of Camelot, after he conspired to dishonor her. And not a word of this to anyone else, for now."

They murmured intended obedience, and he turned his own steps back to the pavilion. To be closer to Gwen, to wait for their midday departure and the news of Havallach… he sincerely hoped they could discover the traitor soon. He did not relish the thought of watching every red cloak and _wondering_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"I have a confession to make," Gwaine said.

Merlin might have whimpered aloud as the words tumbled through his head like dice in a cup. Lucky for him, the rather miserable sound would be lost in the noise of their horses, and the rest of the party.

He counted the rakish knight one of his best friends. Quite like Will, though cheerful where Will tended to sullenness. A bit more talkative, though, and it hurt that it was that characteristic, normally valued, Merlin regretted, just now.

Making an effort to sit straighter in the saddle, he pried his eyelids open, though the bright light of the descending sun, ahead and to his left, only served to localize his headache behind the eyeball on that side of his head. And his head bobbed as though it might dislodge and tumble off.

Might consider it a mercy, if it did.

"What's that?" he asked, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye socket in an attempt to soothe the throbbing, and steeling himself to conversation.

It took Gwaine a moment to answer. The knight rode easy in his saddle, reins loose in his gloves, eyes forward on the pair of riders ahead of them – Percival and Gwen – or maybe the pair of mounted red-cloaked knights ahead of them. There were a dozen such in all, ranged in a protective formation around the core party, if he was any judge. He'd lost track of Arthur, though, the human prince moved about within the relatively widespread formation.

"The first day. The day we spent paddling around the marshes, trying to find an approach to Havallach," Gwaine said, finally. "Seeing that fortress on the hill, and the water around it, I confess that I thought of Aetlantys."

For a moment, Merlin had to breathe through the terrible pang of melancholy that blossomed through his chest at the mention of home.

"Before Leon said, underground waterways, I had something in mind a little closer to what happened there. Submerging the city, shaking down the hill. Earthquakes and floods and fires."

Merlin's spine tightened and his eyebrows lifted and it was possible his mouth dropped open. A little. Gwaine wore a mischievous half-grin as he met Merlin's eyes, but he seemed essentially serious about the suggested use of elemental affinities.

"But," Merlin said, feeling stupidly thick-headed, "all the people. The servants, and maybe the guards and fighters who… maybe they didn't _know_. About Gwen and… their master."

Gwaine nodded. "Which is why I feel I should beg your pardon, for considering that you might take such casualties as a fair price. Or their own fault, for working for such a bastard."

Merlin felt himself confused, rather than offended. Maybe it was some lingering mental lethargy, or some human nuance lost to him. "You don't have to," he said. "Confess, or beg pardon."

"It is," Gwaine said, deliberately thoughtful, though the hint of a smirk lingered, "far more noble and honorable – and princely – in the final analysis, to humble oneself to the mud and disguise, and accomplish the mission alone in hostile territory with only one death."

Merlin grimaced, and allowed aching muscles and bones to slump again.

"Catch Baldyr swimming through that muck even for his own bride," Gwaine added with heavier sarcasm. "Or you, Highness."

Merlin jerked in surprise – at his word, and at Arthur's quiet snort, unexpected on his left. He hadn't noticed that the prince had joined them.

"A challenge for single combat is more my style," Arthur said wryly, "than an all-or-nothing attack. But we saw how well Melwas took to that, didn't we?"

Gwaine muttered a sarcastic term Merlin was not familiar with, but he made no effort to add it to his human vocabulary, after Arthur's faintly-disapproving glance.

"Is Gwen okay?" Merlin said, looking away from the lady's back, where he could read no lasting discomfort, even. "I haven't had a chance to ask… but maybe she wouldn't tell me truly, anyway." Arthur narrowed his eyes, and Merlin explained, "I mean, it took forever. I was very slow, and … there were snakes. And things."

"And no girl likes getting dirty," Gwaine murmured from his other side.

"I think she prefers that memory to the one that might have taken its place if you hadn't gone," Arthur said seriously. "Merlin – thank you."

"Anytime," Merlin answered.

The awkward pause that followed took him slightly off guard – he had meant it, after all. Anything in Merlin's power – _powers_ , up to and including killing Arthur's enemies – he would do for his friend, for any of his friends. He glanced uncertainly from Arthur to Gwaine.

"I think I'll jog on up to the forward position," Gwaine said, with slightly forced cheer. "Get clear of this road-dust a bit, if I can."

The knight gave some signal to his mount, who rocked into a faster gait. He made some comment in passing Percival and Gwen that attracted their attention and humor, by the sound of it, before riding on toward the pair of red-cloaked knights a stone's energetic toss in the lead.

Not that Merlin had the energy for tossing stones. He was rather glad that his horse was content to keep pace with the others, and simply let him sit.

"And you," Arthur said, just loud enough for Merlin to hear over the plodding of hooves on the summer-hard ground. "How are you doing?"

He wasn't sure he understood the question. "Um. I'm okay?"

For a moment they rode in silence, Merlin's headache throbbing mutely in time to the placid jostling of his horse. Then Arthur said, deceptively casual, "The first man I ever killed was a bandit." Merlin squinted into the sun, trying to see the prince's expression – it was nearly impossible, in profile. "I was sixteen years old, out with a patrol, and we were attacked. Ambushed, and outnumbered. It happened so fast."

His own incident had not felt fast, to Merlin. In his memory, the door had taken ages to swing open, and he tripped on the rug and Melwas slipped from his fingertips – and then it was all blood blood blood and breath leaving the body unnaturally still.

"The other knights protected me, of course," Arthur continued conversationally. "But I found myself fighting anyway. It was a belly wound I inflicted, messy and slow. The man couldn't have been more than a few years older than me – I watched him die, and couldn't stop thinking, why was he with these men, why pick up the blade, why attack and force us to defend ourselves." Arthur gave Merlin a sideways glance. "There are no answers to questions like that, none that _change_ things."

Moments passed, and Merlin thought about what Arthur had said.

He'd felt an echo of the same regret, killing the kraken. Such a great creature could have – maybe should have – stayed in the ocean depths, living long and legendary. Why had it come to the abyssal, why take to terrorizing human vessels. No answer – it had, and it had to be dealt with.

Merlin opened his mouth and said haltingly, "I never saw his face. Melwas, I mean. I heard him in the hall, and then… in the room, he had his back to me…"

Leaping on his back, yanking the head back, feeling skin and hair and reactive tightening of the muscles, the slight resistance of flesh under his blade, but _parting_. He shivered; it was too _intimate_.

"He fell facedown, so I never _saw_ him," Merlin continued. Arthur said nothing, but listened. "I just think, what else could I have done, you know?" Gwaine's suggestions were not that far off the mark. "Maybe knocked him off-balance shaking the stone, or caused one of the lamps to flare, or… something," he finished lamely.

Arthur did him the courtesy of considering for several minutes before asking, "Was he armed?"

"I – what?" Merlin had expected Arthur to participate in a discussion of how he could have done differently. Better.

"Was he wearing his sword?" Arthur twisted in his saddle and demonstratively dropped his left hand to the hilt riding his belt.

"Yes." Merlin didn't have to stop to think, it was all quite clear in memory.

"Could you have shaken the castle hard enough to knock him out, without hurting someone else with other damage? Anything short of that, he'd have turned on you," Arthur reasoned. "His sword against your knife, and probably bellowing for his guards. And you'd have been caught or killed – and then what for Guinevere – or you'd have had to hurt or kill that many more of his men coming to his call. I suppose you could have set him on fire…" Arthur's grin was twisted. "But he might have preferred to die fast, to that. No, Merlin. Some men make choices which force better men to actions they'd prefer not to be necessary. It does you credit to regret having to deal with Melwas so – and I am sorry you had to, for my sake and Gwen's – but you need feel no guilt."

Merlin looked into Arthur's earnest blue gaze and saw the human prince wasn't simply trying to make him feel better – he truly believed what he said. And further, if Merlin continued to worry at the memory, it might be cause for Arthur to regret his own choice sending him.

He nodded. "I will try to think on that," he promised.

Arthur's grin melded with the rays of the setting sun. "Good. We're going to be stopping soon, you'll feel better after a good night's sleep on a full belly."

And that, Merlin reflected, was probably true on land or under the sea.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur leaned against a tree with his arms crossed over his chest, alone a short distance from the fire-pit that was the center of their camp that night, and wondered again if he'd made a mistake.

If it had been just him, Gwaine, and Percival to escort Gwen and bring Merlin along, it would have been fine. It would have been perfect. But how was he to justify a two-man escort for himself and his recovered bride, in the company of an ostensible newcomer to Camelot? In the larger group it was far less than perfect, but still fine. If it had even been noticed, no one remarked upon the fact of temporarily-disgraced Gwaine and Percival inviting the new friend they'd made of Gaius' nephew.

But. In this in-between company of a dozen men, it was different. It was, Arthur tacitly discouraged from joining in the chores – and of course if Gwen had lifted a finger to help, it would be well-nigh offensive to the men tasked with her safety and comfort.

Which rather left Merlin open to scrutiny.

He was the only one of them dressed as a servant – and therefore expected to serve – yet still so very ignorant of many of the details and duties of what _camp here for the night_ entailed, and that couldn't help but be obvious to men who _were_ familiar with such chores. So far the perceived difference in status, and a certain air of shyness, seemed to be protecting Merlin from even the more innocent questioning. But Arthur suspected, now the men noticed. How long would it be before someone remarked upon it?

Perhaps Arthur could play the royal-privilege card, claim Merlin for a personal manservant. That way he could keep Merlin looking busy with simple tasks, or hidden away in the cover of Arthur's tent under the supposition of more private work.

Because of the news of the traitor, also. If they kept the fact and details quiet, still an air of suspicion might spread, from his watching and Gwaine's asking – though the talkative knight was very good at that sort of thing, getting people to say things without realizing. But if they didn't unmask the traitor familiar with Havallach and Melwas, willing to ruin the betrothed princess of Camelot as well as the Pendragon reputation for a price, they would have to move more openly – tell the king and captains, interrogate the men, offer reward for any knight informing on a guilty comrade… and of course it would occur to more than one to look long and hard at the young stranger whose arrival and accompaniment of the contingent sent to Havallach was quite coincidental as well as unexpected.

Arthur watched Merlin crouch on his heels beside the fire and Percival, stirring the cook-pot as an easy chore, eyes gleaming in the reflected light like live coals in a dusky bed of exhaustion. The sea-prince still looked worn out, as Guinevere was also, though the afternoon had passed in a pleasant sort of alleviated weariness, and he thought probably both of them were glad to be away from the hill and the marshes.

But what could have been done differently? He could not have left Merlin behind with the bulk of the fighting force. He had not intended to bring Merlin at all – but if he hadn't come, how much further would the situation have unraveled, with deep and lasting harm done? Should he have taken back the invitation that had brought the young mer-man from his home, or declined Merlin's own invitation?

He could not believe that the only answer to their unusual and awkward situation was immediate and comprehensive segregation of their peoples. And it wasn't all up to him, was it? Merlin wanted to be here, knowing full well what it entailed.

"Sire." Gwaine materialized at his side, taking advantage of Arthur's momentary position – alone and yet in unsuspicious plain sight, still waiting on the meal.

"Report," Arthur said shortly, unhappily, exchanging the topic of Merlin for the topic of the traitor he'd overheard.

All of the chosen dozen had come into contact with Merlin at some point, but he'd been in the citadel for a week; he'd probably heard everyone's voice during that time. Two had shifty eyes, according to Gwaine – a rather frivolous reason for their inclusion, in Arthur's opinion. Another was simply the newest among them, and therefore the least known to him. Three of the men of the patrol were known regulars at tavern gaming tables – Gwaine had no idea of debts, but it might make them susceptible to bribery. Four of them had vague ancestral grudges against Summarlynd, pre-dating the decades-old treaty, but still. One, though, Sir Leandyr, had a more recent grudge – an injury sustained in a tournament, dealt by a knight of Summarlynd later proved to have been cheating, which resulted in permanent physical limitations, though not actual duty-preventing crippling.

"You think he might have acted out of spite against Summarlynd, not realizing the extent of the effect on me and on Camelot," Arthur said.

Gwaine shrugged. "It's all conjecture. I can't honestly see any of our men cozying up to a toad like Melwas."

Arthur made a noncommittal noise. "And what of Gosyn?" The short-statured knight was the last one of their escort to be discussed with Gwaine.

"He comes from Summarlynd, Arthur," Gwaine said. "Doesn't that make him doubly loyal, to Lady Gwen and yourself?"

Arthur didn't immediately answer. "He was the sole survivor of her escort," he said softly, finally. Knights moved in an out of his sight on small errands about the campsite, but he didn't see Gosyn – and wouldn't turn his head to seek him out.

"He freely admitted they left him alive to bear the message," Gwaine reminded him. "He was injured, and he seemed furious with Melwas when we met."

Youthful intemperance or deliberate acting, though. "He went straight to Auldkirk after that meeting, and no one saw him for several hours."

"The rest of our men were on duty in the camp," Gwaine answered. "He came back unsteady and smelling of ale."

Same question. Arthur turned to Gwaine – "What of Guinevere? He assumed Melwas had disgraced her and offered for her hand if I was to repudiate her. Perhaps that was the cost of his betrayal, that Merlin didn't understand. Perhaps he's wanted her secretly for years, he's from Summarlynd, only her father wouldn't consider their betrothal."

"Not jealous at all are you, m'lord," Gwaine drawled, his eyebrows quirking skeptically. "If you wanted to marry a lady and weren't allowed, would you go about it by having another man rape her first?"

"Of course not, but then I'm…" Arthur let his protest fade. Gwen had emerged from the tent erected for her comfort to join Percival and Merlin at the fireside, and Gosyn stood listening to her as she spoke up to him, his crimson cloak swept back to allow his left hand a casual rest on his hilt. The picture of courtly compassion and deference due a lady, and Guinevere so charmingly happy. She trusted him, Arthur knew; she'd be offended even to know they were considering Gosyn, and mentally decided to lay aside that question temporarily.

"Is that going to be a common assumption," he said more slowly, his eyes on his lady, fresh and pretty in the servant's dress of faded green. Had his hope for the positive outcome influenced his perception of objective reality? "That her virtue was compromised?"

Gwaine delayed answering til Arthur pinned him with his gaze and raised a threatening eyebrow. Then the roguish knight spread his hands. "Probably there will be those who don't take her word for it," he said. "As to who they'll be or how influential…"

Arthur growled in his throat. Yet another battle to be fought. Against gossip and hearsay, with his bride's feelings and reputation at stake.

Percival looked up and called to the others that the meal was ready; the knights began to gather, but Gwaine pinched Arthur's sleeve to keep him from joining them.

"One more thing," he added. "Speaking of rumors and gossip. The men are already speculating on the identity of Lady Gwen's mysterious magical rescuer."

Arthur sighed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It hadn't occurred to him that they'd need a story, an excuse, when Guinevere arrived in the camp. Even if it had been believable – which it wasn't really – he doubted if she could lie and claim all credit for a miraculous escape. "What are they saying?"

Gwaine glanced at Merlin, curled up with his bowl in the shadow of the bolder knights closer to the fire, then shifted to put his back to the younger man before he spoke. " _Monster_." Then, quickly, to soothe the outrage probably obvious in Arthur's reaction, "But that's the worst of it. Some say elf, or faerie."

"What?" Arthur said, incredulous. Over Gwaine's shoulder, he saw the nearest two knights – one was Leandyr – glance back at his outburst.

Gwaine put up his hands in a conciliatory manner. "Melwas' men brought their own gossip, this morning."

Leon had taken thirty men to Havallach, but Melwas' warriors had not been inclined to resist; evidently they'd already found their master dead and his hostage gone. So Arthur's senior knight had gathered their weapons and locked the armory and taken everyone's name, then sent half of Melwas' force to be dispersed among those left in the camp of Camelot – isolate and intimidate - while he finished consolidating authority and began to evaluate the situation inside the fortress.

"The maid who was found in the same chamber as Melwas' body – where Lady Gwen was held prisoner? – told of a man whose body shone blue. And a number of other servants swore that a fish-man with blue scales snatched Lady Gwen down the well under the fortress."

Arthur scowled. There was no good way to combat rumor. And as long as no one saw Merlin in his mud-covered state or noticed Sirs Percival and Gwaine's need for bathwater at that coincidental time… "I'll talk to Guinevere," he promised. "Perhaps we can work out a few more misleading details to reveal… That faerie story isn't a bad one to encourage, actually, everyone would assume it took human form for the lark of the rescue, meddling capriciously – lucky for us, not so for Melwas – before returning to its people. That'll fit with the idea of _outside_ help we've already started circulating, too. It hasn't gotten back to him, has it?"

"Arthur?"

He was glad to see that Gwaine startled guiltily also, at Merlin's voice sounding so near. The younger man stepped up to join the two of them, a bowl of steamy stew in either hand.

"Percival said, before the rest of them eat it all," Merlin added.

Up close, he looked a little better than he had in the weird planes and shadows of firelight, or during the journey. Out of the saddle, with another meal inside him, and nearly ready for an night's sleep uninterrupted – Arthur hoped – by worries, he should be right as rain soon. And even if he did hear the rumors, he might just as well take it as a grand joke.

Gwaine made a pleased sound and cupped his bowl in his hands. "Thanks, Merlin."

"Did you get enough?" Arthur asked, accepting his bowl.

"Well, it isn't yellow-tail, but it'll do." Merlin's eyes twinkled humorously, and Arthur felt something tight in his chest relax, just a bit.

"Thank you. Merlin…" he hesitated, but only momentarily, sure that the other prince would understand. "The voice you heard with Melwas, the one that sounded familiar – have you heard it today? Among this group?"

Merlin's gaze shifted, just away from Arthur's face, and a faint wrinkle appeared between his black brows. "That familiarity, it was… just an impression at the time," he said. "Not a _recognition_ , you know, and… no. I'm sorry, I don't know who it was."

"It's all right, we'll figure it out," Arthur said. "Go on to your bedroll, why don't you, if you're tired."

Weary smile. "Yeah, I think I will."

"Stay out of the stream tonight," Gwaine advised with a grin.

Inexplicably, to Arthur's mind, but Merlin huffed a protest that was simultaneously, _Oh why not?_ and _I won't_. Then grinned to show he didn't mean either, before turning to head to his place at the campsite's edge.

Merlin Emrys in Camelot. Again with the royalty of the five human kingdoms, and an unknown traitor. Heaven help them all.


	17. Traitor

**Chapter 8: Traitor**

The very first thing Merlin was aware of was a sour ache at the back of his throat. When he instinctively tried to swallow to alleviate it, the uncomfortable dry-stickiness hurt rather than helped, and drew him to full wakefulness.

Aware vaguely of his position in the cot of the apprentice room off the physician's chamber of the citadel of Camelot, Merlin tried to work spit around his mouth and wondered why he was so _dry_. Oh – greater realization and awareness – because he'd evidently been breathing through his mouth as he slept. And that, because his nasal passages seemed to be blocked.

He blinked at the warm morning sunlight permeating the room, touching the simple furniture, in a bleary way – midmorning? – then wondered at the utter stillness of the next room.

Gaius' chambers were almost always peaceful, he'd noticed, but hardly ever silent. Merlin tried to concentrate, but his sense of impact and movement through the wood and stone of the castle seemed muffled – though that relieved rather than worried him, at the moment.

He struggled from his blanket, which was determined to cling around his clumsy human limbs today, for some reason, and lurched trying to get to and stay on his feet. He felt very tall and light this morning, and looked down to make sure his feet were still – yes, they were – on the ground.

How very odd. He was quite sure he'd had none of the drinks last night that Gwaine had listed as sure to cause dizziness and altered perception, sooner or later.

Never mind boots. Or changing clothes, though shirt and trousers both felt limp and crumpled as if he'd sweated and tossed in his sleep. It was water he needed – washing or drinking, preferably both – and he stumbled from the room in search. Gaius' chamber was unoccupied, as he'd thought, and though it seemed an inordinately long way to the washstand in the far corner, at least there was no one to see him stub his toels on the stool or jolt the work-table – and then the smaller eating table – on his way to it. His muscles jittered with every step from unaccustomed use, maybe _over_ use. Damn human legs.

Why was the room swaying? He spilled half the water from the dipper-cup in raising it to his mouth, tried to catch the trickles in his other hand.

Ah, bliss. Even slightly stale and warm from sitting in the bucket, the liquid slid smoothly down his throat.

Merlin shuddered with the sudden raw desire to feel that slip of fluid all the way down his body and… He blinked at the blue scales that glimmered in his palm, wet with spilled water.

That wasn't good. That wasn't good, he mourned, even though it was perfect, and more natural to him than skin – and for the first time, he _wondered_ …

The door opened, close on his right, interrupting the thought, and Percival stuck his close-shaven head and one massive arm through the space. Glancing first through the main area – then catching some hint of Merlin's presence and looking to him with a smile.

"Morning," he said – less teasing than Gwaine might have been, but still with amusement.

"Is it good, though?" Merlin rasped.

Percival frowned, which pulled oddly on the scar that bisected one of his eyebrows. "You don't look so well," he said. "How do you feel?"

Merlin began to tell him, _Fine_ , as a prelude to admitting or denying various points of discomfort, he hadn't yet decided, when a sneeze interrupted him. There was a reason, he was certain of it, why _sneeze_ rhymed with _knees_. The bane of all human existence.

His lungs squeezed all the air out violently and immediately and involuntarily; it felt like his chest had turned inside out like a sweaty sock pulled off too fast. His head swelled two inches, all around, and the muscles of his neck throttled his own windpipe. "Ah, hells," he choked.

When he straightened and blinked through involuntary tears – his _face_ throbbed – he saw Percival leaning away from him in alarm. "You're ill," the big knight said, reaching to wrap his hand around Merlin's spindly-by-comparison upper arm. "Sit down."

His nose tickled, and he rubbed it on the cuff of his shirt, as Percival steered him to the bench beside the table Gaius used for meals. He flopped down in relief; his joints ached, and not only the human ones in his lower half. Percival glanced about the room, but straddled the bench opposite.

"Gaius would be very unhappy with me if I tried to find you some remedy, but he should be back soon – I think he was looking in on Lady Gwen to be sure she was suffering no lingering effects from her ordeal."

Merlin huffed in place of an answer, and draped his head over arms crossed on the tabletop.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Outwardly, Arthur stood perfectly still, feet solid, hands clasped behind his back, head inclined at a respectful angle. Inwardly he was pacing the length of the rug on this side of his father's desk. Though he and Uther were alone, he was by no means relaxed.

Neither was he comfortable with the story Guinevere had persuaded him to – mostly because he couldn't come up with one that was better, and still plausible.

"A sorcerer previously known to the lady as a shape-shifter," the king repeated. His posture was slouched – one arm resting along the desk, the other elbow propped on the side of his chair. But his eyes were sharp. "Heard of the lady's plight and came, unbeknownst to any other, rescued her from Havallach, and disappeared back into the marshes before any of your camp watchmen saw him?"

"Guinevere will corroborate the story, Father," Arthur said firmly. "I only ask that you give her sufficient time to recover before speaking to her at any great length. And that I can be with her while she tells her story, and…" greatly daring, "that she be granted the right to refuse answers, based upon prior promises of discretion."

"Discretion?" Uther's eyebrows rose. "Concerning a question of magic?"

"Yes. Father…" Arthur took a tentative step toward the desk. "I have my betrothed and her kidnapper is dead and we've gained Havallach for Camelot. Can we not thank this hero by granting him his desire anonymity?"

Uther grunted. "Does Lord Summarlynd know who it is?"

"I don't believe so," Arthur hedged. Lord Thomas was due to arrive any day, having always planned to follow his daughter's party by a week's time, so as to minimize the time his estate was left in the hands of his heir, the son half a decade Guinevere's junior. Guinevere had been confident that her father would not mind the means of her escape, magic or mundane.

The king drummed his fingers, then shifted his eyes back to Arthur's face. "Do you know who it is?"

Arthur steeled himself. "Yes."

That admission straightened Uther in his chair. "You've seen him? Met him face to face?"

"I have." Arthur's heart was thundering in his chest; this sort of match of wits was so much different than a match of arms, and he did not have the same confidence of skill.

"At Havallach? Or before, in the lady's company?"

"Sire…" Arthur hesitated, "if I answered truthfully, I would begin to reveal information that I feel would compromise my vow."

Uther's lips twisted. "Magic is not to be trusted, Arthur, I thought I'd taught you this? What sort of man cannot publically claim credit, if his deeds are as honorable as you claim?"

"A very private one," Arthur answered respectfully.

"We have very little time, Arthur, to decide what news to give our guests and allies, what stories to tell," Uther warned him. "If I have misgivings, they may have outright suspicion."

"It is a lady's right to keep secrets," Arthur said staunchly. "We can fall back upon the rumors, the tale of faeries, can we not? We can hint and demur and leave them guessing how much we know or believe?"

"It becomes an issue if any suspect we have allied ourselves even temporarily or involuntarily, with magic," Uther reminded him.

"Tell the truth on that, then," Arthur said. "That you haven't."

"And never would," Uther muttered.

Arthur squared his shoulders just a tiny bit, let his chin jut a little farther. _He_ had, and he hadn't regretted it for a second; knowing Merlin and his father, he doubted he ever would. "What we will be telling them about the wedding date?" Probably his timing was poor, but if his father was busy with his political information-waltz, he wouldn't appreciate Arthur cutting in later on to ask, or consider the arrangement of the post-ceremony ball.

His father grunted again, gazing into the middle distance. "You are determined to uphold the betrothal?"

"Yes, I am," Arthur answered, sighing inwardly. Even his own father.

"You do realize, though, that you cannot marry her now. We are pleased that she's relatively unharmed, but no. You can't marry her now."

Arthur bit back his reactive protest as too childish. Was it Guinevere's claimed acquaintance with a magic-user that had Uther hesitating now? He hoped not. "What do we owe Lord Summarlynd for the broken contract, then?"

His father tipped his head down – his head and his brows. "You just said you were willing to follow through on the agreement. It was my understanding that Gaius expected the physical examination to support the lady's claim that none had violated her during her ordeal."

"No! I mean, of course I believe her and yes I still want to marry her, but you said-"

"Not _now_ , Arthur. I said not now. Perhaps if you were a knight or a minor lord it would not matter, but we are speaking of a successive heir to the throne of Camelot. Were you to marry her now and get her quickly with child, there would be questions. There would be rumors."

"But Gaius –"

The king stood from his chair and moved slowly around his desk. "Physicians can be bribed, Arthur – that is a fact, though you and I know that Gaius is above reproach. But if I were not suspected of so doing, you surely would be. If you are satisfied that Lady Guinevere's honor is intact, the betrothal stands. But the wedding will be delayed until it is obvious to everyone that she is not carrying some brigand's bastard."

Grimly annoyed, Arthur managed, "How long?"

"Four months at the least; I would prefer six." Uther looked down and to the side, shuffling papers on his desk in a dismissive way.

"I do not like the appearance of mistrust this postponement gives," Arthur responded, keeping his tone even with an effort.

"Duly noted." Uther didn't look up. "Now, if there's nothing else, Lady Guinevere has the morning, and longer if she needs it – and you have guests to play host to." Arthur almost grimaced at the memory – of Baldyr and Vivian, more than Elena or Mithian. But changed his mind more than a bit, as Uther added grimly, "As do I."

No, probably he was just fine facing the questions and concerns of the members of his own generation.

Arthur turned on his heel and headed for the door… and for Guinevere, first. And wondered how he could possibly break this news without giving insult on injury, as unintentional on his part as it would be.

When Arthur knocked on the door and was admitted to the guest chamber – _is it quite all right to move the furnishings to the far east room instead?_ – Guinevere was not alone. The maid curtseyed and whisked round the corner to busy herself in the adjoining chamber. Unseen, and barely heard, but still acceptably chaperone.

The lady herself was seated on a bench beside the room's largest window overlooking the best view – courtyard and forest beyond - with one cushion tucked in her lap and one leg drawn up beneath her. She was dressed in a gown of a summery yellow-green shade, more comfortable linen rather than any finer material; elbow on the casement of the open window, chin in her hand. Faraway look in her skyward gaze.

Arthur crossed to her quietly, knelt on the floor where his chest did not quite touch her knee. Her expression was not the repose of relief, but held some tension of unwelcome contemplation.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he said lightly. "Or are they more valuable than that?"

Her dark eyes dropped to him, and she made the effort to smile. "What did your father say? Will he respect my rescuer's right to privacy?"

Arthur sighed, trying to find a comfortable way of leaning against her bench – padded on top, but not on the side. "It depends on the reactions of the other rulers," he said. "The legendary Pendragon suspicion of magic rather works against us. It would be better if we could claim the magician as a stranger and a random piece of luck – or even a local hire I decided upon outside of official policy and as a last resort - because my father would never believe a faerie's free caprice benefitted us without future consequences."

"But we can't," Guinevere said, and Arthur couldn't help smiling. He thought she might be more determined to protect Merlin than he was. If such a thing were possible.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, letting the topic slide.

"Tired but fine," Guinevere said. Looking one, but not necessarily the other. "Arthur… do you mind if I neglect your guests – our guests – for another day?"

"Take your time, no one's rushing you," he said, concerned. Because Uther had no queen, Arthur's wife – or betrothed, at the moment – would assume some of those hostess duties as a matter of course. "They all understand. Baldyr can be an ass sometimes – and Vivian's always a cat – but Mithian and Elena are both good sorts, once you get to know them. It might take some time; Mithian is shy and Elena –"

"They all understand," she repeated softly, turning her face away from his gaze. "That's rather the problem, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Arthur shifted up from the floor to share the bench, his knees nudging to either side of hers – but ready to retreat if she seemed uneasy with the proximity. More than one impatient pair had taken advantage of imminent vows - but theirs weren't, anymore, they'd need to pay attention to private as well as public decorum. For maybe a long time.

"Part of Gaius' exam," she said, her dusky skin taking on a hint of pink. "To ascertain that I was innocent of the most intimate attacks." Quick, keen glance from under long, thick lashes, and he was too surprised to hide or deny – and then of course it would be insulting to try soothing platitudes in place of the truth.

"It's as much for your reputation as ours," he said.

"Because of the gossip."

He couldn't define the myriad of emotions that flitted over her expression, but could make a good guess. At least she was calm… but he had to add, "My father wants to wait four months for the wedding. To prove beyond doubt that… our child is ours. I mean, _when_."

Long. Awkward. Pause.

And his entire body feeling as flushed as her cheeks. _But please, isn't that a good reason,_ he wanted to say. Get rid of this sort of snide speculation now, and for good.

Finally she nodded. Then whisked a quick tear from her cheek and tried a smile again – a shoulders-squared, determined-cheerfulness kind of smile that broke his heart a little even as it make him feel proud and love her a little more. "Shall I stay here, then, or would it be better if I returned home?"

"I want you here," he said, choosing honesty over any more diplomatic answer. It was true even without Merlin's story of a familiar-sounding conspirator to her abduction. Given four more months, perhaps the man could form another plan and find another ally, if the betrayal hadn't been a one-time weakness. He reached to claim her hand from worrying the tassel at the cushion's corner. "Even if we're not to share night-time hours –" and now there was a nicer sort of blush coloring her dusky skin – "we can still share the daytime. I want you here."

She pulled his hand to her, and toyed with his fingers, calluses and his mother's-father's ring. "Then I'll stay."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"He's a good bit worse than when your company arrived last night."

Merlin took a deep breath of the fragrant steamy air rising from the bowl in front of him. Eyes closed, he listened to Gaius shuffle amongst his equipment and supplies; Percival stood still at the corner of the table. Merlin smiled whimsically – if he checked, he'd bet that the big knight had his arms crossed over his chest.

"Through your _nose_ , if you please, young man." The physician's tone was impatient, but his hands – one on the back of Merlin's head, forcing him closer to the steam, one on his forehead – were gentle. "Greater degree of congestion, slight rise in temperature – here."

A cool wet cloth replaced the hand at his forehead, and Merlin leaned into it gratefully, even as the warm and moist air eased tension in the bones of his face.

"Is it because he went twice through the marshes and the water, and Lady Gwen only once?" Percival asked.

Merlin remembered, and raised his head to ask thickly, "Is she all right? Is she sick like –"

"Inhale." Gaius' hand forced his head down again. "She's fine. It might be the greater exposure, Sir Percival, but in my opinion, it's because he doesn't have a lifetime of contracting and defeating such small illnesses to draw on. This is the first time his body has ever had to battle a rather common human ailment."

Percival again settled onto the bench opposite Merlin. Though his face felt sweaty and flushed, he tilted his head to smile at his friend without pausing in his ragged but deliberate breathing pattern.

"Gwaine's on special orders," Percival told him. "No other duties til he's found out the traitor you heard in Havallach. I am still at your disposal, Merlin, unless –"

"I don't think I'm going anywhere today," Merlin answered. "Or doing anything, really…"

Behind him at the work-table, Gaius humphed and muttered and clattered.

"I'll see if I can't give Gwaine a hand, then." Percival put his large hand lightly on Merlin's hair, and tipped his head sympathetically. "I hope you feel better."

"Thanks," Merlin said.

He watched Percival out the door, then closed his eyes to focus on breathing.

In and out. The steam curled in a caress along his nose, cheekbones, eyelids. He couldn't identify the scent of the land-herbs Gaius had used, but it was a mixture of thick-sweet and thin-sour. He coughed wads of saliva, he blew gelid fluid out his nose into a scrap of cloth – better out than in, Gaius had advised, so he resisted the urge to sniff deeply.

No one else came in. The old physician checked on Merlin twice – to moisten the towel pressed in a mask against Merlin's face, and to change the slew of herbs swirling and settling in the basin. Merlin himself saw to the temperature of both, to keep cool pressure and hot steam effective.

"You're forming a gill," Gaius said sharply, startling Merlin out of a dozy tired-miserable-but-improving state. He lifted his head to stare at the physician, who craned his head to one side and touched his neck. Merlin did the same to check, and felt a slit in his skin, but no pain.

"Sorry." Slowly, reluctantly it closed when he focused.

"I have rounds to make," Gaius said sternly, lifting the long strap of a curious round case, stiffened somehow in its shape, to his shoulder. "Are you going to be all right in here alone, or is my next visitor going to run screaming to the king with tales of an invading non-human creature?"

"I'll pay attention," Merlin promised vaguely. "It'll be fine."

Gaius huffed as if he didn't believe a word, but moved for the door anyway. "It had better be," he warned. "I need not remind you what's at stake, for you or for Arthur."

The door closed behind him. Merlin fingered the smooth patch of skin on his neck and listened to the faint crackle of air and sticky fluid in his lungs. He thought of a bright noon battle three years ago, sunshine making a halo of Arthur's hair as he bent worriedly over Merlin, the wood deck beneath his back and the scent of salt and copper. The feel of wet blood sliding from the cut –

Which had closed, when he involuntarily resumed his mer-form, knocked into the water and sinking toward the abyssal. Which had healed upon transformation.

Twice as long this time, he'd been human, than on any other of his pleasure trips with Lancelot on the _Medusa_. Perhaps the power of the spell inherent in his blood and bones gave him the choice of one or the other, but surely his nature was firmly mer-person. Physicality might yearn for that shape in spite of cool intellect, and the longer he denied that, the less might be his control over it.

He thought of the lake. An hour's walk distant, not much more. Quite solitary, though not unknown. Maybe it would be for the best if he made a few surreptitious visits to indulge his physical senses. It might even prove curative for whatever this cursed sticky human illness was.

Tonight, he decided. When everyone was abed, so no one would worry for his absence. Just now, he wasn't sure he cared to sit alone in a room fascinating and incomprehensible and definitely untouchable, thinking on illness and transformation…

He felt steadier on his feet, now in the boots he'd located and shoved on, and Gaius was nowhere in sight when he slipped through the door. And here, he had no need to follow a tapping-pattern beacon, or disguise his passage, making his way to the guest quarters of Camelot's citadel, seeking out the one other person he thought might need some company, today.

Merlin heard Arthur's voice as soon as he turned the corridor pointed out to him as the one leading past the honored-guest chambers, and smiled involuntarily at the unexpected additional pleasure of the prince's presence. He lounged in the open doorway, speaking to someone out of sight in the room – just out of sight, Merlin guessed by Arthur's manner. He couldn't help grinning at the obvious improvement in the human prince's carriage – his body all lazy satisfaction rather than tight anxiety. That alone told Merlin, if he'd needed further proof, that Lady Guinevere was good for Arthur.

His friend must've heard or just sensed Merlin's approach; his delayed glance was cursory until he recognized Merlin. Then Arthur straightened, pushing off the doorpost and said, "Merlin."

Equal parts surprised delight, and chagrined sympathy.

"I look that bad?" Merlin joked hoarsely. One of his ears had partially blocked itself during a sneeze on his way from Gaius' chambers, but at least the walls weren't tipping.

Guinevere appeared, sharing the doorway with Arthur but looking toward Merlin. Her long hair was pinned up somehow but tendrils brushed her neck and hid her ears and her yellow-green dress looked comfortable.

"Oh, Merlin!" she said, and came toward him with open arms.

Merlin noticed no spark of jealousy in Arthur's eyes, but he put up his hands to stop her anyway. "Keep your distance, m'lady, Gaius says I'm contagious. He's given me strict protocol to follow, since I've never had this before and don't know what I'm doing."

"Oh, dear," she said, dropping her arms before returning with him, back to Arthur.

"He says you'll be all right, though," the human prince said, with a hint of concerned question.

Merlin thought of his plans for the lake, and scratched his fingernails gently across the dark-blue scales he'd left on his palm in a fit of whimsy – _not_ homesickness. "Yes."

"I'm glad to hear it," Arthur said, exactly as if he wasn't glad at all – but over something else, not the state of Merlin's health. He exchanged a glance with Gwen, and Merlin guessed there was something there was something they were considering whether to tell him, or not. He missed whatever communication passed between them, but evidently Gwen agreed or encouraged, because Arthur sighed and his shoulders slumped just slightly. "I suppose you'll want to be heading for the port fairly soon, then, but I was wondering if I could prevail on you to –"

"Wait, what?" Still a bit foggy behind the eyes, apparently. "Why am I –" he glanced at Gwen, but she wouldn't meet his eyes and her skin was pink – "going home? I thought, the wedding?" Then it hit him, he must have given himself away somehow, maybe it was for his safety – or maybe just to make things easier on Arthur – that they thought he should…

Arthur was smiling like he'd just said the right thing. "Merlin. You can't see any reason why our marriage should be delayed?"

He hummed a slight protest at such quizzing when his entire head was slow and thick. "No? But you are delaying? How long? I thought you were all right, Gwen?"

"I am." Her smile was bright also, and even grateful; she touched his sleeve. "I'm fine."

"My father's decision," Arthur said brusquely, though he seemed in better spirits now. If it was something Merlin said, he was glad for it. "I was going to ask if you'd stay a few more days. The other royals and their entourages will probably be leaving after my father's announcement, so…"

Merlin made the connection. Gwaine and Percival's mission – the familiar voice – and maybe Gwen wasn't to know about it. "Whatever you need," he said. "But are you sure about the wedding? I may not be allowed to come back in a couple of months."

The betrothed couple shared a glance and another smile at his words, the meaning of which passed him again. Arthur looked back to him without explanation.

"Well, I was going to suggest a few days of just us, without the distraction of other guests, but…" Arthur gazed over Merlin's shoulder into the thin air of the corridor. "What if I could get my father to agree to the ceremony only?" He turned to Gwen, snatching up her hands. "Separate quarters may still be necessary – whatever it takes for your reputation or my father's agreement – but I hate that postponing our vows makes it look like I don't trust you."

Guinevere leaned against him, pushing her palms up his chest. "You know what I think," she told him earnestly.

A smile pulled at Arthur's mouth and he dipped his head to kiss her forehead. Then as he turned to head the opposite way down the hall, he gave Merlin's shoulder a whack that almost toppled him, as precarious as his balance was. "I'll need to talk to you later."

"Looking forward to it," Merlin called after him, allowing a bit of sarcasm into his tone. Arthur didn't turn, just lifted his hand in a negligent wave, and strode on.

Gwen giggled, then sighed. "Do you want to come in and sit for a while?" she gestured to her room.

"Do you mean, before I fall down?" he said wryly, considering that might be closer to the truth than a joke at the moment. Damn knees. "That's what Percival said."

She made a noise of concern, and took his arm just above his elbow in a firm grip. "Are you really that bad?"

He let her draw him into the chamber – light and airy, and he wondered if it smelled better than Gaius' chambers. There was more than one cluster of flowers – pink, peach, lavender – in vases about the room. Not that he was smelling much of anything.

But aside from the lack of steam treatment or cold compresses, it was a much pleasanter hour than he would have spent alone in the physician's chamber. And if the inexplicable reason why Arthur's father reacted as Lord Melwas had anticipated, casting doubt on the wedding, weighed on Lady Gwen, Merlin was happy to do his part to distract and cheer her. Mostly with stories and explanations about his home, his family, his friends.

Though an hour was about all he could manage. Gwen very solicitously provided him with a cup of water which she kept filled and he kept warm, but there came a time when words hurt, and she saw it in spite of his calculated pauses and sips and smiles.

"Thank you so much, for sitting and talking to me, and telling me about your home," she said, leaning toward him earnestly. "It sounds wonderful, you must miss it… But why don't you head on back to your chamber now? I'm sure you wouldn't mind another chance to rest?"

Merlin ducked his head in agreement. "Only if you promise to, also," he said, trying to ignore the hoarse rasp at the back of his throat. "At least relax. And not worry. And trust Arthur – he's very good at strategy, you know."

She dimpled. "Strategy, is that what my wedding requires? Yes, Merlin, I know." She stood gracefully from her seat on the bench below the room's largest window, and he struggled clumsily to his feet from the padded armchair turned from the small table to face her. "Thank you," she said again, reaching one hand to him. He caught it between both of his, rather than shaking it in the normal human custom. "For everything. Really."

"My pleasure to serve," Merlin said with a grin. "My lady."

A question crossed her face and her eyes dropped down to their hands. She did as he'd done, taking his hand in both of hers to turn it palm-up for examination. "Merlin, what's –"

In that moment, his ears and his muffled affinity senses caught footfalls at the open doorway, six paces behind him. He turned, recognized Gosyn in a classic knight's stance – cloak thrown back over one shoulder, left hand resting on sheathed hilt – and snatched his hand back from Gwen, closing his fingers on the patch of blue scales.

"Sir Gosyn! Good morning," Gwen said warmly, either playing along with him or genuinely turning her attention from curiosity to courtesy. And there was no missing her regard for the short, quiet knight – though Merlin reacted as he always did, dropping his eyes and trying to fade backwards out of notice til he could actually leave the man's presence.

"I came to see how you were faring, my lady," the knight said. "In light of the rumors that seem rife in Camelot this morning. But if you already have company…"

Merlin felt the weight of his gaze. Saw the edge of the crimson cloak – his memory drew up a repetition of a _sneer_ – swirl as if in departure.

He heard, _my_ lady. In that voice. He closed his eyes and listened to _rumors… company_. He heard an echo of _It would have been easier if the Pendragons admitted they have no care for her personally_ – and shuddered.

Traitor. Gosyn was the man he'd heard in the corridor of Havallach.

At the very least he'd reported to the kidnapper to give him inside information on his captive's would-be rescuer, keeping the secret of the tunnel from his prince. At the very least, perhaps he'd done it in bargain for his life at the conclusion of the ambush over a week ago. At the _most_ … it had been his idea, for whatever reason, and he'd hired Melwas to help.

Over Gwen's sweet reassurances that Gosyn was welcome to stay and Merlin was a friend, he lifted his head. The motion drew Gosyn's attention past Gwen to him.

He seethed. And in that moment didn't care if the other saw it. _Traitor. And still she treats you like this, when you come to deceive her further._

"No, Gwen, it's all right," Merlin said, not quite interrupting; her dark eyes were mildly surprised, but without resistance. "I need to be going. Remember your promise to rest." He flicked back to Gosyn in saying that, giving warning the other couldn't miss.

Gosyn was warned. His dismissive superiority changed to something sharper and unrelenting, as Merlin sidled to the door, keeping his body facing Gosyn as he went.

Unbothered, she said easily, "I'll see you later, then?"

"Lady Gwen." Merlin nodded his head in what was also a brief bow, and slipped outside the door.

Where he waited.

To be sure. And since he was sure, to see that Gwen was not left alone with the traitor.

Merlin knelt to put his hands on the floor; if anyone came down the corridor and noticed and wondered, he could pretend to be searching for a tiny lost item, like a button, maybe. He didn't hear every word – and of course Gosyn would say nothing incriminating in front of Gwen – as he concentrating on the small random movements that told him of their positions within the room. As long as that double-pace of floor silence between them remained, he was content to wait.

But he caught the gist.

Gosyn was telling her of the rumors – Merlin wondered sourly if the knight had helped to spread a few, himself, wondered how Gosyn should have heard them so soon. And he'd gone right to her under pretence of service, informing her, rather than protecting her as long as possible by refuting, and not tale-bearing the rumor that the Pendragons had called off the wedding after all. Gosyn's tone was sympathetic – Merlin raked his nails over the stone of the floor in a momentary expression and release of fury – and unmistakable.

He would be honored if Gwen chose to – oh, not canceled, just delayed. Well, still. If Gwen considered herself offended, or just well rid of son at least and definitely father, Gosyn's offer of marriages was hers for the taking.

Merlin could hardly believe it. Shocked, stunned, angered –

 _Traitor._

He stiffened at Gosyn's use of that word, and focused on exterior senses again, finding that his ears were clear again.

"Now of course it's not common knowledge, m'lady, though the prince and his closest knights are aware." Gosyn was slimy with false humility, in the pretence to that coveted description, _closest_.

"Yes, but – a traitor? Are you sure, it seems so –"

"Most likely it's nothing," Gosyn went on, unseen in the room. "The loyalty of the knights of Camelot is renowned, after all. But there does seem to be lingering suspicions that one, at least, colluded with Lord Melwas."

Footsteps – light but uneven – as Gwen retreated. Merlin tensed, but Gosyn remained where he was, raising his voice slightly to reach her at the increased distance – and therefore Merlin heard clearly also.

"I'm trying to find the source of that rumor. I just thought… you should know to be careful about who you trust."

Honey-sweet sincerity. And rank as pond scum. Merlin scratched the floor again, gritting his teeth.

"Maybe… you should reconsider giving yourself to someone who would allow the dishonor –"

Merlin experienced a full-body shudder, in holding himself back.

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong, Gosyn," Gwen said, her voice quiet but calm. "Perhaps you're right and there is a traitor, perhaps King Uther does care more about his reputation than Summarlynd's. But Arthur is _true_. How can I be any less?"

Merlin almost crowed his approval of Arthur's lady. But the heavier set of feet shifted, and he pushed to his feet, moving back again so that Gosyn's leave-taking descended into a sullen mumble of reiteration. The corridor was deserted but for the two of them when Gosyn bowed his way from the room and closed the door. The short knight didn't bother checking his surroundings, but began to stride away the other direction.

"What do you suppose," Merlin spoke clearly into the quiet air of the corridor, "Arthur would say, to hear you proposition his betrothed, behind his back?"

Gosyn turned on his heel in mild surprise at the sound of his voice, and though the look he gave Merlin held more of the antagonistic scrutiny he'd shown earlier than the arrogant disregard of before, he stood still in place. "Who are _you_ to question _me_?"

Right over Merlin's dangerously quiet, "A friend," the knight continued.

"And how dare a peasant like you claim that familiarity, address his majesty and her ladyship without title? I should give you a sound thrashing for your insolence."

As much as he might _want_ to, Merlin knew better than to dare him to try. "Do not lecture me on respect and loyalty," he spat instead. "Not when you seek to persuade your prince's bride to change her mind and break her promise, in your favor."

"What are you going to do?" Gosyn sneered, stalking closer – which was a mistake, Merlin thought, as the disparity in their heights became more pronounced with proximity. He drew himself up and the other noticed – but pride wouldn't allow him to step back. "If you think to go tale-bearing know this – Prince Arthur already knows that I stand ready to rescue Lady Guinevere from disgrace with my own name."

"There is no disgrace," Merlin said softly. "Nor does she need rescuing any longer. One might wonder why you're so eager for either."

Gosyn drew back like Merlin had smacked him in the face, his glove squeaking from the grip on his sword-hilt, as he looked Merlin over. "Oh, I see," he smirked. "Gwaine and Percival have got you asking questions too. Some advice, _boy_? Mind your own business."

He put out his hand to shove Merlin's chest. Hard, and domineering, as if he wished to push him all the way down to the floor to secure Merlin's humiliation.

And in Merlin's weak-ill state, it might have worked, except that he was still angry enough to call up the air behind him – as he'd once done with a fathom of water between himself and a longboat where Percival stood straining at a fishnet. It solidified softly, so all that happened was that Merlin took half a step back, his hands rising for balance and for warning, before he was gently righted and steady by a great cushion of air that then dissipated behind him.

Gosyn's surprise was fleeting, his attention distracted only momentarily by Merlin's aborted flail for balance, his disappointment at the lack of embarrassment plain. He scoffed curtly but wordlessly, and turned to stalk away down the corridor.

And Merlin was left to cool off and think of what to do.

He'd rather not involve Gwen. Arthur wanted to talk later, but the prince was probably busy with royal guests, politics and reputations and the aftermath of the abduction, just as much as with a traitor they still couldn't prove. Not unless Merlin wanted to confess everything and throw himself on the dubious honor of the human king – exactly what he'd been warned not to do.

 _Keep your distance_ , Percival had advised. Well, Merlin knew two knights who were tasked with finding the traitor's identity and the means to prove it.

And the anger draining away was leaving him feeling weak-kneed and thick-headed again. Merlin sighed, and it set him in a coughing fit into his crooked elbow and the limp material of the white shirt he'd slept in. Back to Gaius' chamber, then – and he'd talk to one of the two knights, or both, the first chance he got.


	18. Betrayal

**Chapter 9: Betrayal**

It was _late_ by the time Arthur made it to Gaius' chambers.

He was a bit light-headed with exhaustion – and wine, if he was being honest – dealing with the royal personalities and perceptions and prejudices. One on one might not be so terrible, but it was mentally and emotionally exhausting to add layers of intrigue and intention to the group conversations.

Guinevere had come to dinner, though, and everyone had been civil and compassionate, at least outwardly. It was the pinnacle of the – hopefully not – wasted day. That, and his father's agreement to consider blessing a marriage-in-name-only for half a year, and delay any official pronouncement of complete postponement.

But between duties and guest and headache, Arthur hadn't gotten a chance to speak to Merlin again. Neither Percival nor Gwaine had sought him out to report any findings on the traitor; he figured he needed to discuss a different approach with the younger man. Provided, of course, that Merlin would recognize that voice if he heard it again.

Arthur pushed open the door to the physician's chamber carefully. A single candle flickered on the side table in silence.

Well, almost. Arthur could hear Gaius' steady, slow snores from the old man's bed behind the privacy screen in the far corner of the room, and grimaced to himself, pausing. Merlin had been ill, pale and a touch unsteady, for their brief conversation in the hall – but he had been out and about rather than in bed or shackled by Gaius to the means of cure, here in the physician's room.

He couldn't help thinking of Merlin's clumsy delight, that first night, almost tripping down all three stairs to greet Arthur personally and properly. Anyone else would consider himself snubbed by the neglect – it was a little humbling that Merlin forgave and simply enjoyed what little time they had.

Arthur moved purposefully then, though quietly, through the room, up the stairs. The door was ajar, and creaked only slightly as Arthur pushed through, the sound not enough to carry to Gaius' sleeping ears.

"Merlin," Arthur whispered.

There was no reply. He pushed the door open further, hoping the light would reach – just enough to make out the shapes of the furniture in the back bedchamber.

"Merlin!" Arthur hissed again. Silence. Complete… silence.

He crossed to the bedside, spreading his fingers as much to wake his friend by touch as to _check_ , and – the bed was flat, cold, and empty. Merlin wasn't answering because Merlin wasn't there.

Arthur straightened, thinking. Well, where else, then? If he was well enough by now to go out – and of course it would be with Gwaine or Percival or both – the knights would probably not waste their time or risk Merlin's help with a casual tankard at the nearest tavern. Though they might very well have had the same idea as Arthur, and that casual drink was a deliberate drink at one or more of the handful of public houses where the knights congregated on an evening off.

He looked at the window, half-shuttered. It wasn't yet so late that the majority of the men would be seeking their beds, but it was too late for Arthur to go wandering the lower town in search of them. He moved for the door again, deciding to check the barracks first. Then he'd either wait for them there, or give it up for tonight and return to his own chamber.

In the room Gwaine and Percival shared with two others, Arthur found Percival seated sideways on his bunk, a boot over one big fist and a brush in his other hand.

The big knight was on his sock-clad feet in a moment, dropping both items on the bed behind him to adopt an attitude of respectful attention. His voice held surprise and question and something else Arthur couldn't identify. "Sire?"

"I was looking for Merlin," Arthur said by way of explanation. "I suppose he's out somewhere with Gwaine?"

"Ah." Percival's scar pulled oddly at his eyebrow when he frowned. "I suppose so?"

"You don't know for sure where they are?" Arthur was mildly disappointed if the day was to end without at least this bit of apparent progress.

"Gwaine said he was going to… try a new angle on the problem of the traitor."

Arthur made a noncommittal sound, moving closer. Percival was holding himself a bit stiffly, not quite meeting Arthur's eyes – and a memory teased, of Percival and Gwaine outside the tent where Merlin slept, discussing… well, probably whether or not to pass on Merlin's story of the traitor overheard. Gwaine had spoken, while Percival had acted much more reticent.

As he was acting now.

"What is it," Arthur said, his tone a warning somewhere between _I know it's something_ and _you'd better tell me or else double training with full armor and heavy weaponry._

A muscle twitched in Percival's jaw. His gaze flicked to Arthur for half a second – and then he deflated with an audible sigh. "Merlin reckons he knows who he heard talking to Lord Melwas in Havallach."

Arthur opened his mouth to demand, _Who_? but Percival went on.

"Please don't ask me for a name, yet, Arthur, there's no other proof than Merlin's word and we can't use that without giving him away. Gwaine's gone to see if he can't pry the beginning of a confession out of the traitor and I have another idea but if you know, what can you do? You won't be able to help treating him differently – and of course I can't blame you – but if he knows we suspect, he'll be careful. Or he might do something we all regret, out of desperation."

Arthur shut his mouth. Percival was more inclined to thoughtful silence and habitually left the verbosity to Gwaine; the sheer number of words coming from the big man's mouth silenced him long enough to consider… and grudgingly agree. Probably he would find it hard to smile in the face of the man who'd betrayed Guinevere to someone who'd have casually violated her simply to spite Arthur, who was now the cause of delaying his wedding because of the unfair doubt cast on her reputation because of it. Probably he'd find it hard not to hurl his glove in the man's face and draw his sword on the spot, not even waiting for the arena. Even though he was fully capable of controlling himself til the opportune moment to strike at his enemy, this was a traitor, and at the very least might notice Arthur's manner had changed.

"What's your other idea?" he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest, dinner jacket unbuttoned and shirt-laces loosened.

Percival sighed again, in relief. "Havallach is ours now, most of Melwas' men agreeable to swearing loyalty and trading the owl for the dragon, yes? There must be some among them, or possibly among the servants, who can identify the knight who came to Melwas, at least by sight? My idea was to send a messenger to Leon and if such a person or persons can be found, that they return here to give testimony."

A trial. Would probably be better than stating grounds for a challenge and taking care of the man himself. They could probably skirt the question of how they'd known to search for a traitor to begin with; if the proof was solid enough it might not matter to Uther as much as judgment and punishment.

"I'll have a rider sent to Havallach first thing in the morning," Arthur decided. And make a point of finding Merlin to tell him well done. "Remind Gwaine that our young friend is still recovering, though – I'm not terribly impressed that he dragged Merlin out with him, this time of night." Percival dropped his eyes and shifted his weight. "And the two of you, in the meantime, keep your eyes on this bastard."

"Yes, sire," Percival said grimly.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

In the gray predawn, Merlin sat on the end of a dock that had been built from the shore out into the water of the lake, where it was about a fathom and a half deep, drawing circles in the water with his bare toes.

He drew in a lungful of breath and let it out in a sigh of contentment, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. His trousers were soaking up moisture from the dock's perpetually damp old wood, but they'd soon dry in the summer air.

The lake wasn't the ocean, the salt and crashing waves, the subtle deep currents and the pressure hugging his entire body. But it was still _water_ , and the distant lap of foam and pebbles had lulled him as he floated well out toward the middle, watching the warm throb of stars, feeling the alternate wash of cool night breeze and rippling lake water over his face, relaxing drowsily toward deep slumber because _scales_ and _tail_ and _gills_.

It was hard to give up, and he was already cutting it close; dawn would overtake him before he made it back to the citadel, he was afraid. He took another deep breath and none of the air snagged on anything sticky coating the passages of nose, throat, lungs. It was satisfying to see that he'd been right about the healing effect of the transformation.

And Arthur was waiting in Camelot.

Not literally, but… Gosyn and Gwen. Gwaine, and Percival, who knew he could take care of himself but also took the responsibility of his safety and wellbeing seriously, and he respected that. Gaius, who would be up soon himself, and Merlin figured he preferred to return before curiosity became concern, after all.

He opened his eyes and kicked at the water, scattering droplets across the soft gray surface, before twisting to get his feet under him. Boots in hand, he set off back toward Camelot.

Gwaine and Percival knew who the traitor was, now. Merlin wasn't sure how else he could contribute to see justice done in that situation; he felt like if he couldn't tell the _truth_ , then he ought not give testimony at a trial at all. Though how else could they prove Gosyn's guilt without an outright confession… He supposed he could attend Gwen and prevent or at least monitor any contact she had with the traitor knight, until Arthur and his men sorted the rest.

Which brought him to the second question that needed answer, before he could think of leaving – whether the wedding ceremony would be soon, or months hence. He understood the decision was to be made by the king Arthur's father. Merlin also knew that the more days that passed, the more anxious his wife – not to mention the king and queen his own mother and father – would become.

Ah, Freya. For another moment – there had been several, during the night – his imagination could almost supply the feel of her arms around him, her tail twined with his, the silky brush of her hair on his face, and her lips… He felt a little guilty, knowing that he could return to the delight and comfort of a wife, when Arthur was unsure of his.

But after the night spent at the lake – on the lake, in the lake – he was more confident that he could handle the extra days away from the ocean. He'd send a message for Lancelot to deliver, and just… wait. However long it took.

Merlin didn't quite make it back to Camelot by dawn. The highest towers were sunlight-peaked as he approached the arched doorway in the castle wall, opening his mouth to tell the guards whatever would get him through.

The call of his name from the courtyard just inside the gate interrupted. "Merlin!"

The guards recognized the voice just as Merlin did – he made a shy _may-I_ gesture to the nearest guard, who jerked his helmeted head in casual response.

The courtyard was still shrouded in shadow, though lightening. Arthur was still in the motion of turning when Merlin caught sight of him and hurried to join him, as if he'd been striding across the area, and a glance of recognition through the gate had stopped him.

"Morning," Merlin said with a smile.

By his expression, Arthur didn't know whether to be concerned. "You're up early," he observed. "And you look quite clear-eyed, for having spent an evening out with Gwaine."

It wasn't a question, and Merlin's instinct was to sidestep the prince's curiosity. To avoid admitting how miserably ill he'd been, how affected physically by his protracted separation from the water his home. Not to mention Arthur's probable reaction to the news of Merlin's solitary nocturnal excursion – if he'd want Merlin not to do it again, or at least not alone. And he couldn't ask his friends to give up a night's sleep so he could _swim_ … He felt an almost visceral anticipation of doing so again, tonight. Every night.

Whether he wasn't suspicious to begin with, or whether Arthur didn't really want details of Merlin's supposed time with Gwaine, Arthur continued without intervention, "Actually, you're looking quite well no matter what you did last night."

Heat rose to Merlin's face; he shrugged sheepishly.

"You are feeling better, then, completely recovered from Havallach?" Arthur questioned, and when Merlin nodded, the prince shifted his weight and ventured, "Is that down to your – hm, affinities?"

"Could be," Merlin hedged. "You're up early, too."

"Sending a message to Leon," Arthur said. His gaze drifted to the open gate in the wall again, distant and preoccupied. "Percival thought there might be witnesses in Havallach who could identify the traitor who conspired with Melwas on sight."

"Did Percival tell you who it is?" Merlin gasped, hand flying to Arthur's elbow – not to stop him physically since they weren't moving, but verbally, maybe.

Arthur startled – but looked past Merlin's right ear with an expression that made him turn on his heel, just as a more-solid shadow shifted away from the base of the wall. After a moment it resolved as a man – a knight, by the enveloping neck-to-heels cloak – striding away from them. Not hurried or hiding, exactly, but Merlin couldn't recognize him. And if Arthur did, he didn't consider it important enough to mention.

"No, he didn't say," Arthur answered. "That's probably for the best, at this point. Listen, Gwaine and Percival will try to keep an eye on him without alerting him to our suspicions, so they won't be able to –"

"I understand," Merlin said. "I was going to ask – the wedding?"

"Undecided," Arthur said, with just a hint of unhappiness. "My father is still considering."

"I'll stay, then," Merlin told him, and was rewarded by the brief quirk of a smile. "I was actually planning to make myself useful to Gwen. Try to keep an eye on her? Now that we know who betrayed her to Melwas."

Arthur hummed appreciative agreement. "Do we know why, though."

"I… think I might." Merlin hesitated as Arthur's eyes – the blue visible in the rising light, hard and clear as ice – found his. "I don't really understand… and if I say any more you'll probably guess… But if Leon can find witnesses, you'll be able to ask him yourself at trial, won't you?"

Arthur grunted, clearly dissatisfied with not knowing. And it wasn't that Merlin didn't trust the prince's self-control. It was… well, he couldn't begin to imagine Will, for instance, trying to sabotage his relationship with Freya, especially in a way that was dangerous to Freya herself, with the intent to propose to her. It would be hard to believe – and even harder to predict how he would react, once convinced.

He rather thought he would be glad of secondary corroboration, too; it didn't sit well with him to be the only accuser of one of Arthur's sworn men.

"Well," Arthur said, with an air of leave-taking. "Don't let me keep you. I expect Guinevere will join the rest of us today, so I'll see you then?"

"Of course," Merlin grinned, already looking forward to it. He headed for the near gallery that led to the tower and the physician's chambers, while Arthur stepped toward the wide main stair.

"Oh, Merlin?"

He turned back to catch Arthur's crooked grin.

"You might want to put your boots _on_."

Merlin glanced down at the footwear dangling from his fist and laughed, not minding the sarcasm in the prince's tone in the slightest. "And comb my hair, too, I suppose," he called back.

Arthur tossed his head back in a laugh, and they parted.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was a watchful two days.

Arthur watched Guinevere, for any little sign that she was not doing as well as she assured him she was – and for all the little signs that proved it. He watched the members of the royalty and nobility they were in company with, for any little sign of that sly sort of suspicion, nasty gossip spread whether it was believed or not, and while he caught a few tail-end glimpses of smirks or hand-hidden whispers, he didn't think Guinevere had, and that mattered more. Those sorts of fires could not be put out by force, he knew, but would have to burn out themselves, as long as there was no fuel.

He could not help watching Merlin, though the sea-prince had an unexpected talent of blending into the background – quiet and unobtrusive, without being servile. It was a relief to Arthur to know that his friend in his court-physician's-peasant-nephew guise was looking out for Guinevere's reputation and peace of mind, too. But he couldn't figure if Merlin was watching one knight in particular or not, of the dozen that had accompanied them from Havallach to Camelot.

Arthur watched those dozen, too, when duty or courtesy brought them into company. Especially when Gwaine or Percival was present, which wasn't often.

In a corridor and late for an early lunch with the ladies, Percival told Arthur neutrally, "I searched his quarters and belongings, and found nothing incriminating."

On the training ground, in a stolen moment aside, Gwaine said, low and fast, "I don't know, Arthur, I can't tell. If he's guilty, he's doing a helluva job playing innocent."

"Could he suspect that you know?" Arthur said. "Or Merlin?"

"I can't imagine how, and Merlin said he didn't think so," Gwaine answered. "I made a show of talking to the others the same way and got nowhere, but… hells, Arthur. The one Merlin named – we've known him longer than Merlin. I know Merlin wouldn't steer us wrong, but… I can't help thinking, what if he's sincerely mistaken?"

Arthur wondered if it bothered Gwaine more to think that someone he'd known for years was so untrustworthy, or that this same man could fool _him_. "We'll wait to see what Leon can send us."

On rare occasion he watched his father. Trying to divine if Uther had or hadn't decided, or was waiting on some exterior marker to make up his mind.

He finally caught a moment alone with Uther, quite by accident. Late afternoon, between an open-door session of unscheduled petitioners which Arthur had avoided and dinner, which he couldn't, Arthur heard his name called. He looked up to see his father at the juncture of the corridor Arthur traveled, and the next.

"Father," he said, surprised but willing to take advantage of the opportunity, and hurried to join his parent. Falling into step as Uther continued the direction he'd been walking, Arthur waited some moments before venturing, "I was asked by Vivian today if she's going to get the opportunity to wear the gown she'd packed for the ceremony, or whether it would be for a farewell banquet."

Uther hummed distantly, eyes ahead. "Olaf also has betrayed impatience."

They reached a corner and turned, followed by a member of the king's constant guard. Arthur clasped his hands behind his back and squeezed his knuckles to reign in his own impatience.

"I am not aware of any significant impediment to your exchange of vows," Uther continued, slowly and at last, "if only to avoid another such gathering of my fellow rulers in six months' time. However." The king stopped and turned to face Arthur, who mirrored the action with only a moment's delay. "You must discipline yourself to keep your distance from her, in appearance as well as in fact. If she is got with child and begins to show, the rumors will flare up, you know as well as I. And unless the child clearly favors you –" Uther made an abortive gesture reminding Arthur how different his coloring was from Guinevere's – "those rumors will persist for a very long time. You may one day face pressure to name another as your heir, and I need not tell you what utter chaos could come of that."

Not to mention the hurt, to Guinevere and their child. Arthur was quite sure they could keep up the attitude of courtship, alone without ever being alone – and if not, the thought of that hurt would be quite the bucket of frigid well-water on his impatience and ardor.

"Yes, father," Arthur said, sedate by dint of serious effort.

"Your original planned day has been and gone," Uther continued. "But I believe the steward can arrange an acceptable alternate in two days' time, or three."

Arthur considered. He could expect to hear back from Leon in the second half of the next day, and wondered how an arrest and trial should be handled, before or after. It might depend on the revealed identity, and how he might expect that to affect Guinevere. A private corroboration of Merlin's claim, a quick arrest – and maybe the trial left for after the other royals had taken their leave. The kidnapping of the prince's bride was bad enough – though swiftly and decisively resolved – the trial of a traitor in Camelot was not the sort of news they wanted spread to other courts.

"Two days should be fine, father," he agreed.

"Talk to the steward after dinner, then, I've notified him already of my decision." Arthur nodded, turning the motion into a short bow to excuse himself, but his father wasn't finished. "Also I was informed this afternoon of a monster discovered fouling the waters nearby. I want you to take a patrol and investigate, an hour before first light."

Arthur was in a hurry to get to Guinevere with his good news. The prospect of an early ride and some blood-warming action, after days of standing and sitting around and talking, occasionally playing at one aspect of training or another, was good news also, even though it would likely turn out to be nothing; it was not uncommon for such a report to turn out a natural explanation, after investigation. Briefly he considered if he could manage Merlin's accompaniment and aid – but that might prove unnecessarily complicated; Merlin could do nothing in full sight of a company of knights, in any case.

"Second thoughts," Uther said, twisting back before Arthur could take two steps, "I'll go with you. It's likely that our guests will have a leisurely morning after tonight's dinner, but Bayard is sometimes an early riser. A couple of hours in the saddle sounds a good alternative."

Rare twinkle of an almost-there smile. Arthur stared, astonished, til he realized that in spite of Uther's concern for Pendragon reputation, he was pleased to be gaining Lady Guinevere of Summarlynd, and the allowance of the ceremony wasn't grudging.

"I will look forward to it," Arthur said, already beginning to shift backwards to be on his way.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin celebrated the evening banquet by slipping out early.

Gaius was seated at one of the side tables, deep in conversation with another noble of his generation, clad in deep purple velvet and with a wispy gray fringe encircling his bare pate. Merlin, as Gaius' visiting relation, was allowed to be present, but not seated. At the high table, Gwen looked happier than he'd seen her since his own wedding day on the high sea, pink and pleased after the king's declaration that the wedding would be performed as planned.

Percival was on duty elsewhere, but Gwaine was present, seated on the opposite side of the grand crowded chamber with a selection of off-duty knights. He was keeping an eye on Gosyn from several seats' distance, but if Merlin hadn't already known that, he wouldn't have guessed. He appreciated the subtlety of both knights, over the last few days, actually.

Gosyn himself was aware of, and probably personally offended by, Merlin's presence and position. More than once he'd lifted his head to glare deliberately at him.

Merlin ignored him. The traitor knight hadn't approached Gwen again, in company or in confidence, at least while Merlin was there, and he knew the other two knights would have innocuously headed Gosyn off when he wasn't. In any event, Gosyn probably despised him for a rude nosy peasant, and he wasn't giving the knight any excuse for legitimate confrontation.

He leaned down to Gaius' off-shoulder, keeping his touch light and unobtrusive, his tone low. "I'm going to get some sleep?"

Gaius tensed and turned a degree, without interrupting his partner in conversation. Merlin knew the old physician had been curious about his overnight recovery, two nights ago, but he'd managed to play off his early-evening, early-morning routine as habit. As long as the door to the apprentice bedroom was shut – and he'd left it shut, before dinner – he believed Gaius would assume him sleeping inside.

After a moment, Gaius glanced back at him. "You're not feeling ill again, are you?"

"No." Merlin smiled to reassure him. "Just tired."

"All right. I'll try not to disturb you when I come in." Gaius turned back to his companion, making some dry comment about young men seeking their beds while their elders sat up at table.

Gwen and Arthur were nearly forehead-to-forehead in intimate exchange at the high table, and Gwaine across the room was animatedly raising his mug, facing the other direction, when Merlin left the banquet hall.

Through the corridors, down the stairs, across the courtyard. None of the guards who saw him questioned him, and those stationed at the gate were distracted. One dodged the almost-too-close flicker of the torch in its wall-bracket next to him; the other was momentarily occupied with a bit of windblown dust in his eye, and Merlin was past.

It would have been much harder in his own kingdom; the ripples of movement through the water could not be disguised. Then again, escape could easily be made from any window in Aetlantys, up and out.

Twice or thrice Merlin paused to glance behind, to feel for the air currents and focus on the stone-cobbled street beneath his feet. The last two nights he'd gone to the lake, he'd had the unshakable feeling that he was being followed or watched, though he'd found no evidence of it. The same sensation did not accompany him back to Camelot at dawn, however, and he'd put it down to an odd side-effect of the anticipation of the lake, or a mild guilt that he hadn't told any of his friends about his trips.

Except tonight, he didn't feel it. And that lack, however backwards it was, had him looking over his shoulder.

Nothing out of the ordinary that he could tell.

Merlin left the lower town and took the path through the forest that led to the lake.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It surprised Arthur the next morning – slouched in his saddle in the middle of the column though without partner on the narrow path – that he could fall into a foul mood just days from his wedding.

Then again, anything could happen between now and then, and it was going to be marriage-in-name-only for months.

Last night, Guinevere had not been impressed with his explanation to her mildly surprised, "You're not drinking tonight?" He'd managed to mollify her by the end of the evening with tales of other false-alarms, reassurances that reported _monsters_ didn't always mean _monsters_.

Those excuses seemed to have worked on _him_ , at least; he'd managed to forget the planned excursion, himself, and his servant had yanked him out of bed, late and to a cold hurried breakfast.

Down in the torch-lit courtyard, Gwaine had met him at his stirrup with the bad news – but obvious, if he'd stopped to think about it – that Percival was sleeping after a night on duty, and that he himself would not be joining the patrol for four reasons. Gwen and Merlin the first two, who remained behind in bed – Leon's response to the message which could arrive any time, since they'd heard nothing yesterday – and the fact that the king had not chosen him for the patrol.

"I should have made that decision," Arthur had realized. He'd been too distracted by his father's agreement to the marriage ceremony, and the organization that required, to take charge of planning this morning's expedition himself.

"I'm not worried," Gwaine said, shrugging and glancing about to gauge the time they had left before the king ordered the mounted company to move out. "You've got you-know-who with you, so we know he's nowhere near Gwen…"

Arthur had taken a quicker, sharper glance about, noting Gosyn and Leandyr, but not able to immediately identify the others from their escort dozen. He tried again, up and down the column of first-light ghosts – the crimson of their cloaks rendered an ashy old-blood color – but couldn't put definite name to anyone more than three people distant from his position. He relaxed into a more comfortable slump in his saddle, and turned his thoughts inward again.

Gwaine had continued, teasingly, "You'll probably loiter for a few hours and return, having seen nothing worth reporting."

Arthur thought he'd been successful, denying most of his wry grin. "Check on Merlin, later?" he'd suggested. "I think he left the banquet quite early last night – I wonder if he's not as fully recovered from his illness as he tells us."

"He's been looking fine to me." Gwaine shrugged and stepped back once all the knights were mounted. "But all right."

Once out of the lower town – still mostly sleeping but for one or two citizens outside their homes to begin the day, startled from remnants of drowsiness – Uther had chosen _magic_ as the topic of their conversation, there at the head of the column where Arthur had begun the trip.

Of course grateful for Guinevere's safety. Of course graciously granting her the right to keep her rescuer's identity secret. But, concerned. That such a choice – of course understandable under circumstances – would be made by a future Pendragon queen. For her attitude toward magic, and for Arthur's. Didn't Arthur still hold the beliefs-opinions-viewpoints that his father – his king – had instilled in him since birth? Treat magic with extreme prejudice and suspicion. Always keep as much distance as possible. Allow no influence.

Arthur could only think of a captured, frightened mer-man curled on the Medusa's deck, surrounded by strangers. Humans, and he'd probably been warned against trusting just as Arthur had, when it came to magic.

"Excuse me, sire," he'd said shortly, jerking the reins to turn his horse's head, pulling the gelding to the side and to a temporary halt. "I'm going to check on the men."

Arthur was so focused on his frustration with the whole situation – the royals, the traitor, Melwas, Guinevere and the wedding, Merlin's secret – he hardly noticed their route until they arrived at their destination. Uther had already issued orders to the first half of the men; Arthur dismounted and lingered near, gathering that the king was establishing a half-moon ambush with crossbows.

He gazed past his father and recognized the lake, the dock offset from their position by a stone's throw, but its length in clear sight. The water rippled silver in the rising pre-dawn light, but Arthur could detect no sign of threat, either sound or movement.

The last few men departed at a quick crouching walk, silent as hunters nearing their prey, ringing the shore to either side of the dock.

"We'll be fine here," Uther told him in a low voice, glancing toward the water and leaning sideways against a tree to hide himself. Arthur instinctively knelt behind a bush just beside, and his father looked down at him. "I gave orders for a crossbow to be hung on every saddle," he observed neutrally.

Arthur made a noncommittal noise. "Then there's fifteen bolts aimed," he returned. Half the time wounded creatures fled, but if the monster charged them, Arthur still had his sword for defense. He found he didn't care to pursue the kill, so close to his wedding.

"So generous with the glory," Uther said.

Arthur hid his cringe at the almost-sneer of disapproval. Not for the first time, he wondered if his father might have been more tolerant of emotion and sensitivity, if Arthur's mother had lived to be wife to Uther. Something to keep in mind, maybe, for when he was husband… and father.

They waited, and moments passed. The king stirred restlessly, but not enough to alert anyone or anything more than five paces distant. Arthur glanced up, and because it was his father, he did what Leon would have done for him - push for details, rethink the plan, talk it through to settle nerves.

"I don't see anything," he said in a low voice. "I don't hear anything… What is this monster we're waiting for?"

"A water creature," Uther responded, leaning out to see more of the lake's surface, also. "It's said to emerge between first light and dawn, here by the dock."

Arthur waited, but his father offered nothing further. "Said by whom? Who reported the sighting? What damage has this monster done?"

Uther looked down on him with mild surprise, as if _being_ a monster was damage enough to warrant a death sentence. "Gosyn said he heard rumors from one of the villages to the west of the lake, and saw signs of it himself."

Gosyn.

An inexplicable chill skittered down Arthur's spine, drawing the muscles stiff. He shifted to search along the bank past his father, turning over his memories to decide which direction the shorter knight had taken upon their arrival. Why hadn't Gosyn said anything to _him_?

"Only Gosyn? No secondary corroboration?" he questioned.

"We're here now, aren't we," Uther answered with a disdainful impatience.

Arthur understood. He knew how the tension of their diverse company and the unexpected upheaval of their plans made him long for some simple and diversionary action, too. Still… "Yes, but –"

It might have been a sound, or a movement. It might have been something else entirely, that drew his attention sharply back to the water. Visibility was low in the myriad grays of nearly-dawn, but clear up to a stone's hard throw, and _something_ disrupted the surface of the water, black on silver rippling away.

It reminded him of riding anchor off Land's End, trying to locate and identify –

Motion was smooth and calm… more ripples… slight splashing.

Dread broke over Arthur, and he struggled against it, against suspicion – it was impossible, he was safe in his bed an hour away from here.

Dawn was very close. And Arthur' heart was pounding; his fingers curled around his hilt, ready to… ready for… He noticed a lump of something on the edge of the dock, the moment the thing in the water disappeared momentarily behind the corner of the far edge of it.

Without warning, something some _one_ cleared the water in a fantastic, graceful leap – dark hands, dark arms, dark head, dark _tail_ following – to land lightly and curl on the old damp wood of the dock. The delicate fringe of the fin swung casual and careless over the side of the narrow dock, flipping lazily as he stretched; they were too far to see the blue, without sunlight.

Arthur was transfixed with horror, and no solution came to mind. He began to straighten; Uther's fist clamped around his forearm, but he didn't take his eyes from the end of the dock.

Merlin rolled to grasp the lump, which resolved into trousers – they heard clear his, " _Ow, damn_!" A moment's worth of awkward wriggle, and the mer-man was on human feet, stumbling slightly as he started down the dock toward the shore. His attention was on the rest of the bundle in his hands, carrying and sorting, boots and shirt, Arthur guessed.

Oh, Merlin. Dammit, _dam_ mit.

Arthur surged upright, took a single long step forward, through the bush with a loud protesting crackle of twigs, dragging his father with him.

Merlin startled instantly, sank a few inches into a frozen, wary crouch – eyes wide under the wet tousled mess of his hair.

Daylight burst through the forest, touched the lake, and Arthur almost cursed again, because it was all up now. Light enough for the whole patrol to have seen tail and scales, to recognize the peasant-clad stranger claimed by the court physician. Gaius was in trouble, Arthur would be in trouble as soon as he let on how intimate was their acquaintance.

If Merlin fled he'd be hunted as guilty, no matter how illogical that was – Arthur bit back the instinctive warning to flee that surged to his lips, and broke eye contact to half-turn to his father. Beg mercy, a chance to _explain_ – "Sire –"

Someone bellowed, " _Fire_!"

Someone that Arthur recognized, to forget a moment later in the shock of, " _No_!"

Merlin dropped shirt and boots – one bounced off the dock into the water – and spun, taking two sprinted steps for the end of the dock.

It wasn't enough. The soft insidious _twang-hiss_ of bow-strings and flying bolts filled the air. Merlin jerked, twisted – let out a small heart-wrenching cry – and plunged over the side of the dock.


	19. Truth and Transformation

**Chapter 10: Truth and Transformation**

Arthur had seen Merlin dive many times. Beautiful and graceful and effortless and quick – but this was the clumsiest accidental tumble of long uncoordinated limbs he'd ever witnessed, disappearing into the splash.

By design or by luck, the dock blocked him from half the patrol's crossbows. The other half's scattered second-volley bolts pattered into the water… and nothing surfaced.

Arthur plowed ahead, bellowing, "Cease fire! Cease fire!" waving the command only just _too late_.

He stumbled his way along the rocky shore, eyes on the splash-ripples rather than where he was going, and leaped up to the dock. The whole structure shuddered under his weight as he pounded to the place where Merlin had fallen, and dropped to one knee.

Bolts bobbed on the mild surface waves, innocent as twigs; the water was opaque at two-hands depth. He could see nothing - he searched further - he ducked to look under the dock… and could see nothing.

Flat on his belly and reaching, he couldn't more than stir the lake-water with his fingertips; ignoring the knights and his father, he rolled to swing his legs over the side, and lowered himself. Carefully, but his feet touched nothing til they settled into inches of soft mud-bottom. Thigh-deep, and he didn't hesitate to spread his fingers into the opaque water up to his armpits, feeling around the area where Merlin had fallen. It reminded him of the other night, when he'd felt for the younger man on the cot in the back room off Gaius' chamber; he huffed a bitter laugh to himself. Couldn't find him then, either.

After a few moments of wading and slipping and finding nothing, Arthur gave up. He set his palms on the rough damp dock-planks and hopped, lifting himself back up with a whoosh of clinging water. Still ignoring the others, he pushed to his feet and stepped slowly to the end of the dock, looking ever further into the lake, even as far as he could see. There was nothing. At least, he told himself in the trembling let-down after fear and danger, no body floated unconscious or… or worse. How far away might he be by now, if he still _could_ … waves rose and sank, oblivious and unbroken.

"Did we get it?" someone called, clear and sharp and echoing slightly from the water.

He turned to see one of the knights – a short one – lead the others in coming out of cover, crossbow negligently propped against his shoulder. Uther beat him to the far end of the dock, but the king didn't venture over the water, instead waiting for Arthur to return, his arms crossed over his barrel chest.

Arthur sent a last glance over the surface of the lake, as much of it as he could see, inlets and coves of the irregular shoreline still hidden, and his heartache spiked sharp and unbearable through his chest.

By damn, he was such a failure. First Guinevere, now Merlin.

He clenched his fists and turned back, his boots squelching, shirt-sleeves and pant-legs sticking to his body at every step. His foot bumped something, and he had to blink twice before he could see Merlin's boot clearly, fallen on its side and half-covered by his abandoned shirt.

 _Ah, Merlin. For the love of…_ Aetlantys _, why?_

Arthur bent and scooped up the shirt, damp and crumpled, and the useless single boot. Uther lifted one censorious brow over Arthur's dripping figure as he returned reluctantly; he said a bit snappishly, "It's summer. I'll dry."

"So," the king said; Arthur focused on the pathetic ownerless articles in his hands. "Not an it. A _him_. Whatever he is. Did he escape?"

"I think Leandyr wounded it – him – sire," someone offered from the gathering group of knights to Arthur's right.

Uther ignored him. "Is he Gaius' nephew at all?"

"Do not blame Gaius," Arthur said. He was too furious with himself – too sore at heart, too _worried_ – to be careful what he said or how he said it, just now. "Merlin was _my_ guest. My friend. And yes, I know I have a lot to answer for – just, please, can we have that conversation in private?" The moment he said _mer-person_ , he was afraid there was going to be a general dash of gawkers and fortune-hunters for the coast and its sea-craft.

Uther glanced over Arthur's shoulder, around at the waiting knights, and nodded. Arthur could tell he was not pleased, but didn't want to guess whether it was due to the deception, or the failure of their hunt. As the king turned to absorb their surroundings, prior to making up his mind and issuing orders, Arthur's attention was caught by the look on the nearest knight's face.

A disappointed sneer.

Arthur deliberately stepped off the dock in a short controlled hop to the gravelly shore, gaining the short knight's attention and a switch to respectful subservience that was as abrupt as it was insincere. Several others of his men moved backward from his way.

"Gosyn," he said, half a dozen suspicions and impressions contradicting each other in his head and heart. The audience with the king to confess the abduction, the tent-meeting with Melwas, the surprise of seeing Guinevere in camp the next morning – the knight's reactions and attitudes throughout… "Perhaps you can explain something to myself and His Majesty." The knight opened his mouth as Uther retreated a few steps to join them more sedately on the gravelly shore, but Arthur didn't wait. "Perhaps you can explain why _you_ gave that order to fire, just now. Rather than waiting for your superiors to call for surrender."

"I – I didn't want – escape," Gosyn stuttered, glancing to the king. But Uther said nothing, allowing Arthur's diversion, clearly wanting to hear the answers himself and willing to allow Arthur the moment.

"Perhaps you can explain why you bypassed me as your captain to bring word of a threat – small, and solitary – straight to the king," Arthur pressed.

"It seemed to me that you had a fondness for the stranger." Gosyn straightened, squaring his shoulders as if physically gathering his confidence. "I feared you might not believe me."

Arthur took a prowling step forward. "So you did recognize Merlin," he said. "You knew this monster you reported, knew his name, knew that he was a friend of several in the citadel, yet you withheld that information from us. Instead of trusting us to take him quietly for what questioning we felt appropriate, you deceived His Majesty to bring us out here – for _this_?" He flung an arm outwards at the lake without breaking eye contact with Gosyn, who flinched at the violence of the motion, and the droplets flung from Arthur's wet sleeve were the opposite of amusing.

"Sire, I –" Gosyn's eyes flickered to the king, who remained impassively silent – eyeing the short knight rather than his son. "I thought, if you saw proof that the young man was a monster, he could never deny it and –"

Proof. Arthur took a figurative step back, and saw more than a proud, stupid knight. His pulse pounded in his ears and it sounded like hoof-beats.

"Or did you have another reason entirely for wanting Merlin dead or discredited?" he said, surprised at how calm he sounded.

"I – I don't know what you –" Gosyn stumbled backward, real fear mingled with defensiveness on his face. The other knights shifted, instinctively forming a ring around the three of them, though they could not understand what was happening.

Arthur was only just grasping it himself. He laughed, a short bitter thing that hurt his throat. "You," he said. "Do you know why I didn't think it was _you_?"

"Arthur," his father said, and Arthur made his feet stand still, though he didn't look away from the knight.

"Because she trusted you," he continued softly. "Because she cared for you, and called you friend. You bastard."

"Arthur," his father said more sharply.

Gosyn's pale green eyes showed affront at the insult, and Arthur fumbled not to drop Merlin's shirt and boot, trying to strip the sodden riding glove from his hand.

A disturbance among the knights interrupted him, and Gwaine came shouldering his way through, his eyes smoldering and his breath coming hard through flared nostrils after his ride to reach them from Camelot. He spent a moment searching among those present, looked past them to the lake, even ducking and lifting on his toes to see past other knights.

"Sire," he said, nodding an abbreviated bow to the king, and stepping right up to address himself to Arthur's ear. "He's gone. His bed's not been slept in. Gosyn's room-fellows say he's not been in either, two of the last three nights. And with this tale of hunting a water-creature –"

The need for secrecy was unfortunately past; Arthur drew back from Gwaine and informed him bluntly, "Merlin's been shot, on Gosyn's call. I don't know how bad it is, he went into the water and I haven't seen anything of him since."

Relief slid along Gwaine's razor-sharp worry, and they both turned to scan the lake again, sunlight twinkling along wind-ruffled waves. The next moment Gwaine's glove was off his hand, and he didn't hesitate to hurl it at Gosyn. The leather slapped the other knight's chest, startling all of them except Arthur - who nearly punched Gwaine in frustration. The gauntlet-substitute missed Gosyn's nerveless grasp, and flopped to the pebbled shore at their feet.

"Sir Gwaine?" Uther rumbled, displeased.

"Single combat, to the death," Gwaine said. More than one man from the circle around them inhaled sharply in surprise; Gosyn whimpered. "Here and now, if so please your majesty, and I will accept any handicap that is judged fair."

"State your grounds," the king demanded with a glower. It was within his right to deny or delay the challenge, but Arthur rather thought he was still curious. And angry. Gwaine glanced at him and inclined his head in silent invitation.

Arthur stepped closer to his father, making a show of pulling his own glove back onto his fingers, even though it was uncomfortably wet. "My friend Merlin," he said, dropping his tone deliberately; this was still not a truth he wanted the whole company to hear, yet, "is the reason that my bride is safe, and _whole_. He volunteered to use certain talents he possesses –"

Uther's eyes narrowed and Arthur saw the word magic written there as clear as day – Arthur turned his head a brief emphatic degree as a wordless demand to be allowed to continue, since Uther had already accepted the esoteric aid for his future daughter-in-law.

"To get inside Havallach," Arthur went on. "Where, he overheard its lord – may he rest in pieces – speaking in familiar conversation with someone whose voice he recognized." He watched the significance of that impact his father, then turned on the traitor. "Tell me, Gosyn, did you watch my knights search for Havallach's hidden tunnel and laugh? Did it amuse you to put on that side-show, pretending fury at your partner-in-crime, offering single combat, sulking off to Auldkirk before you hurried along to pass information about Camelot to Melwas?"

"Those are l-" Gosyn blurted, corrected himself to attack Arthur a little less directly, "That is untrue, my king, it's slander only, and I don't know why Prince Arthur would –"

"I don't know why you'd agree to another man raping your intended, as the only way to claim her," Arthur spat, angry again that the chance to challenge the traitor himself had been taken away from him. Gwaine put out his hand to block Arthur's shoulder, more reminder than actual deterrent, but remained content to let Arthur fight the verbal battle while they waited for the king's decision on the contest of arms.

"Arthur," his father warned, and he recognized the tone for _that doesn't make sense._

"My guess is you've been infatuated with Guinevere a good long while," he said to Gosyn, trying to pull himself back into proper princely self-control. "But her father aspired to _more_ –" he emphasized the word with a derisive up-and-down gesture for the traitor's unimpressive figure – "for her marriage connections. More than Melwas, too – you had that in common, but while he wanted her dowry, you wanted _her_. Even if the only way to have her was if Camelot repudiated her over the forced affair. You absolute _swine_."

Uther took Gwaine's place, putting his hand on Arthur's shoulder to gain his attention back, and it helped to calm him. Outwardly. "And you did not inform me because…"

"I was waiting til I could base the accusation on more than Merlin's word," Arthur admitted in a low voice only meant for his father, but Gosyn reacted as well, with a hint of cocky relief, as if that might yet save him from Gwaine.

"And you trust him – a stranger and a sorcerer – over your own man?" Uther asked.

There was no sarcasm there, only a very quiet sort of astonishment. Arthur nodded, as serious as swearing his word. "I can explain to you why, in more detail, later and in private," he promised.

"My lord," Gwaine interjected, "Sir Leon sent a message back from Havallach just this morning. And a witness who described Lord Melwas' contact within the ranks of Camelot as short and stout, with fair curling hair. As far as I'm concerned - and with your permission of course, sire - he can confirm the identity of Gosyn's corpse."

The traitor blanched, at the news and the threat, and retreated – but was caught and held by three of the wall of red-cloaked men he backed into. But not so tightly that he was prevented from collapsing to his knees, hands clasped in petition.

"Mercy, sire, please have mercy," Gosyn babbled. "Spare me the challenge, I'll confess! It was all Lord Melwas' idea, he threatened my life if I didn't help him gain the hostage for the ransom!"

"Enough," Uther said, lifting his hand. But lowering his head in thought.

Arthur bit his lip, holding his breath, wanting to shout with impatience and add to the accusation, questioning the veracity of the confession. Gosyn wouldn't meet his eyes, and a long backwards look told him nothing new about the lake or anything that might be hidden by its waves. Where was Merlin – because he had to be _somewhere_ – and in what condition?

"Sir Gwaine," Uther said finally, "we are not unaware of your skills – with weaponry and without – almost unparalleled." Gwaine looked positively unhappy with the praise, as though he anticipated what was coming next; Gosyn sagged in pitiful relief. "Allowing the challenge would be the same as ordering this man's execution. And while I suspect you threw your glove to pre-empt a similar gesture from my son –" Arthur scowled at Gwaine, who let his lips twitch sheepishly – "the fact remains that you were not personally harmed, nor do you stand in place of one who was."

"But sire, Merlin –" Gwaine protested.

"Is another matter," Uther overrode him – and interrupted Arthur considering whether it would be worth the delay, to throw his own glove now that Gwaine's challenge had been denied. "Arthur, do you believe there is a chance that he survived and escaped?"

"There's a chance," Arthur forced out. Deciding that Gosyn was _not_ worth the delay, he wrestled briefly between anticipating his father's answer and having to ask anyway. _I want to look for him_ – and the king was perfectly capable of ordering Arthur taken into custody – the half-dozen knights to secure him because he wouldn't hurt them, in resisting.

Uther was a surprising step ahead. "Take the rest of the day and half this company to search," the king commanded. "The rest will escort myself and the prisoner back to Camelot, where I will hear the witness that Sir Leon sent from Havallach. If you've found nothing by nightfall, you must return to the citadel and I will make my decision without the sorcerer's input. And he will be considered fugitive, to be arrested-" he held up a hand to stop Arthur's protest – "but not harmed further. Does that satisfy you?"

Arthur considered. Freedom to search and care for his friend; Gosyn headed back to a cell, and probably very quietly, as Uther would not want word of the incident getting out to the other royals. Not even Guinevere, yet, so he'd have time to break the news gently and explain, when he returned.

"Yes, my lord," he said.

"And you and I will speak later," his father warned.

Arthur nodded, figuring he was going to have to tell everything. He only hoped he could find Merlin and beg his forgiveness for it, first. Give him the chance and the option, too, of hightailing it for the coast, no matter how angry Uther would be. And hope he wouldn't have to get word to Lancelot to warn the rest of Merlin's people that they had to leave Aetlantys and go into hiding…

"By your majesty's leave, I will join the search," Gwaine offered.

"Fine." Uther signaled for several of the knights to see to Gosyn's restraints for the trip back to Camelot, and prepared to follow them himself. "Happy hunting."

Probably the irony was lost on the king, but Gwaine's cringe mirrored Arthur's – luckily lost in the division of the forces, and departure of half of them, under the king.

"Listen up, men," Arthur said, addressing those who remained, shuffling their boots and looking to him for orders in the midst of the several unexpected developments of the morning. "Half of you go to the east, half of you begin to work your way west. Sir Gwaine and I will ride to the far side of the lake and start there."

Amid mumbles of agreement and compliance, Gwaine said in his ear, "How bad was he hit?"

"I don't know," Arthur responded. And couldn't stop himself from scanning the surface yet again – and fruitlessly. "I just don't know."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Infinite serenity shattered in one hellish moment. The shock of stabbing agony, the unfortunate distress of a startled inhalation of a lungful of water…

What hurt Merlin the most was the look on Arthur's face.

Instinctively he ducked low in the water, as low as he could get, and clung to one of the soggy supports of the dock, blinded by silt, paralyzed by the fire of his own throbbing pulse. Every nerve aflame. Every movement nightmare.

And the image branded on sightless eyes – the golden-haired human prince's _indecision_. So much worse than the blank warning across the courtyard when he'd arrived – for your own good, make yourself scarce.

 _I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have come. He regrets it – I've ruined everything – it_ hurts _…_

Humans didn't like what they didn't understand, they feared what they couldn't control.

 _I'm alone._

In a single shuddering paroxysm, he returned to his natural state – and cried out as the injury was inflicted anew.

But the sunlight was diffuse and the water opaque between himself and the humans who had obviously come to capture him – damn his stupidity and his stupid homesickness. Bit by bit his body loosened the helpless clench of muscles that isolated and minimized the pain – and it localized in the front left side of his tail, where the tips of his fingers would reach if he didn't bend his spine.

Gingerly he explored – touched something long and hard embedded in his flesh.

Deeply, by the scared sick feeling that flashed through him along with sharper agony. He heard himself moan – _oh, Arthur_ – and the sudden splash and wave of something dropped into the water _very_ near sparked an instinctive retreat.

He clawed at the water with webbed hands to move faster, blindly heading for the middle of the lake, his tail at once stiff, and liquid with agony. He gasped out desperation and pain, unable to move quickly, to move his tail at all – nerves shot fire and ice down to his fins, up to his chest, with the slightest twitch. He stopped to float, tried to swallow his panic…

No one touched him. No one came after him. He propelled himself to the bottom, slowly, using only his hands.

Three boat-lengths or so from the dock – he couldn't see, but he could still _sense_. About halfway to the approximate center of the lake, and half-a-dozen fathoms deep. They didn't have boats and nets; he was safe.

Except.

He concentrated to be sure, waited and waited and checked the echoes of ripples again, light-headed and distracted with the throbbing of the wound – there was no outlet to the lake. Maybe a stream, at the far northwest corner, but nothing of a size to hide his passage.

Which meant… which meant… what did it mean?

How eager were they for his capture? Would they surround him? How long would they wait, and guard the lake? He could live here the rest of his life – there were fish, there were stones to fashion tools, he need not even surface – but _oh_. If he thought they were gone, and he tried to leave… and they'd stabbed him very deeply and unexpectedly with a stick that was making his existence unbearable. He couldn't see his hand before his face, at this depth and with the particle saturation of the water, so his fingertips would magnify the wound and the – what? sliver? spear? something in between.

Then he had an idea. Cross the lake and escape from it before they could surround it.

There were worries there, too. Evidently with the weapon lodged in his wound, a transformation would not heal him. And though his human trousers were still with him – tied at his waist, pinned at the point of impact – they'd been ripped straight through by his tail. Injured and undressed and lacking the horse to make the two-day ride to the coast…

Well, it was either that or surrender to a tacit captivity. And it hurt, just floating, the minute wash of water plucking at the stick stabbed into him.

He rolled carefully, tried to stroke slowly and as thoroughly as he could, with just his arms, letting his tail float as motionlessly as possible. It wasn't much better. The water dragged at the stick, jostling it in his flesh, and he sobbed out loud into the water.

Had to hurry. But the faster he tried to go, the more it hurt… the less chance he'd have of being physically capable of continuing.

 _Damn. Damn. Oh, Arthur,_ why _?_

 _No. I'm sorry._

 _My fault._

 _Didn't keep the… secret._

 _Father, I'm so sorry. Freya… Mother…_

He gritted his teeth and forced his fingers down the smooth scales of his body, down his tail, found the offending object.

Every nerve jerked at the contact, and the temperature of the lake seemed to drop abruptly. His pulse thundered like surf in his ears. He placed his hands deliberately – they were shaking or maybe his whole body was – then applied vicious, sudden pressure.

For an agonizing moment, nothing happened. Desperation turned into a bit of self-punishment – he cried out again as the stick broke, leaving a hands-width protruding from twisted and broken scales.

He persuaded himself, when the relentless throbbing had settled somewhat, that it was better, so.

Stroke. Stroke.

Fingers spread. Arms trembling. Body _so_ heavy.

Oppressed by the murk of the lake-water – blind, and breathing labored…

Stroke.

Keep going. Now it was his wife waiting at the end of a seemingly impossible journey, and he couldn't let her down.

His parents. His people. His king.

Stroke.

Finally it seemed the lake was growing shallower, though the bottom was not easy to gauge, mud drifting up to merge with water over a fathom, at least. The vague light was more yellow than gray, though he stayed as far from the surface as he could. Until he couldn't, and his eyes told him of clear air a few hands-widths away, bright sunlight and dark shadow dappling the surface.

He saw no red… and broke surface cautiously.

Sound clarified immediately, the small rush of ripples on shore-pebbles, the brush and creak of leafy boughs in the breezes. And nothing else. No shout of discovery.

He rolled to his back, hands and then elbows down to pull himself slowly closer to shore. Once he'd blinked the water from his eyes, he could see the stick, slender as his smallest finger and twice as long, protruding from his tail, now hidden by the tattered fabric of ruined human trousers.

It made him feel sick, and he looked away, across the lake, around the irregular circumference of the shore. He was on the inner curve of a bend in the shoreline, and could see nothing. Alone, apparently.

He drew several deep, deliberate breaths, dropping his head back and closing his eyes. It was going to _hurt_ to transform back into a human.

And then, he was going to have to _move_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"He'll be all right, we'll find him," Gwaine said, for the – fifth? – time.

Arthur had lost count. He'd also stopped responding; his knight was talking to himself as much as Arthur, and it was more make-it-so-by-repetition, than assurance-of-a-given-fact.

He ducked a branch, mostly letting his mount pick his own path, at a slow walk between eight and twelve paces from the lake's edge, while he watched the damp sand-and-gravel for any sign of passage. With an occasional glance to the rest of the lake when the trees opened up, and an occasional shift in his saddle, uncomfortable in still-damp clothes.

"What was he even doing out here?" Arthur said aloud, drawing rein momentarily to let Gwaine's mount move past, before continuing on himself.

"Swimming?" Gwaine tossed over his shoulder with a grin that dropped slightly at Arthur's glare. "I don't know, Arthur, maybe it's harder for him to be away from his home than he let on."

"Why didn't he –" Arthur cut himself off, already knowing the answer. No, of course the young sea-prince would not make such a complaint to any of them. Not even if it meant he was placing himself in danger, coming all the way out here alone and at night.

Without acknowledging Arthur's aborted question, Gwaine raised his voice yet again to call their friend's name. "Merlin!"

Privately Arthur wondered if Merlin would answer, if he heard them.

Down by the water's edge, something caught the high noon sun and glinted. As Arthur turned his head, a whole patch of the swaying wash glittered briefly – and the pebbled mud just beyond the water's reach appeared disturbed.

"Gwaine," Arthur called, swinging his leg over the saddle to dismount, tossing his reins out of the way.

Sliding down the narrow shore, he crouched to examine the signs – his handful of glimmering water trickled through his fingers, but one small blue scale stuck to his palm. Arthur looked up at Gwaine, now afoot as well, but still a few paces back, searching the treeline.

"There's sign of passage," the knight reported. "It keeps going…"

"He transformed to human shape, here," Arthur realized, and named the emotion that bubbled just below his heart _relief_. Out of the water, they'd be sure to find him. Then again, maybe he didn't want to be found, even by them – he hadn't answered their calls.

"I don't see any blood," Gwaine commented, moving about to study the ground. "That's a good thing, right?"

Arthur remembered Merlin's cry of pain, and his fall. "You didn't see him go into the water," he said grimly, straightening and shifting to study the forest from the shore. "It wasn't intentional…" He moved forward along the trail of trampled undergrowth, bent twigs, kicked leaves – it wasn't the chosen path of ease a man would walk while thinking clearly. "Look, he's gone right through these bushes instead of around."

Gwaine grunted and after retrieving the leads of both of their mounts, kept pace while Arthur fixed his eyes on the ground. There wasn't any blood that he could see, but – it looked like Merlin had fallen, more than once. And while it was good that he was able and determined to walk, to keep trying…

" _Arthur_."

He responded to the tone of his knight's voice instantly, lifting his head to see the mounts abandoned and Gwaine standing hands-on-hips intent over something on the ground. Then skipped forward as the dark-haired rogue knelt with infinite tenderness, not yet touching the figure half-stretched, half-curled in the dirt and detritus of the forest floor.

Merlin, of course. Mostly naked and barely covered by tattered trousers, he lay face-down. The only movement – the only reassurance Arthur had, in that awful moment –

 _He remembered the look on Merlin's face as he fumbled at his neck and blood trickled over his fingers – as he scrabbled instinctively over the ship's deck, away from Arthur in his pain –_

Was the visible expand-and-contract of his ribcage in breathing.

His face was hidden by one arm, raised as if in a failed attempt to drag himself one more pace further. Hips canted sideways so that the lower leg was drawn up in support or protection or propulsion – and the upper extended limp and useless.

The broken end of a crossbow bolt protruded, halfway to the knee, halfway around his thigh between front and side. The trouser material pinned in place hid the wound, but it was stained dark red in a small circle around the embedded shaft, even after his long submersion. And as Arthur approached, he could see that the younger man's pale skin was marred with numerous scratches and scrapes from his short, ineffective journey through the forest.

Arthur swallowed.

"Is this the only one?" Gwaine asked quietly, pointing to the arrow in Merlin's leg.

"He'll be lucky if it is," Arthur said huskily. He stepped next to Merlin as Gwaine reached to move his arm, clear his face, in preparation to attempt to wake him.

Merlin began to rouse – at least aware that someone was there – Gwaine soothed, "It's all right, it's just us, Merlin, Gwaine and Arthur."

Maybe he didn't recognize them, catch or comprehend the words. But Merlin – again wounded, wary, panicked – rolled and tried to escape. Clawing with dirty, broken nails, pushing with one bare heel, unable even to lift his body from the ground. He let out a moan that rose and fell – and then a series of clicks in the mer-people's language. A piteous plea for mercy that wrung Arthur's heart.

"Hey," he said, rounding Merlin to kneel on his other side – as much to comfort him as block his escape. "You're safe, Merlin. You're safe. Just relax."

For a moment Merlin still resisted his touch, weakly batting at his hands, then trying to avoid – then allowing in a surrender of exhaustion. He curled in on himself as Arthur gripped his upper arm, rubbed still-wet hair back from his face.

"Is it just your leg, mate?" Gwaine asked, giving his friend a practiced glance of evaluation, top to bottom and back – Arthur did the same on the other side. "Not hurt anywhere else?"

Merlin whimpered in the back of his throat; it might have been an answer in his own language. His eyes squeezed shut momentarily, then blinked.

"He'll come around in a minute," Arthur predicted, addressing Gwaine, who met his eyes with an unusually inscrutable expression. "We'll have to have a look at his leg, and probably take the arrow out…"

"You don't want to wait for Gaius?" Gwaine said, and there was an inflection in his voice that Arthur couldn't define.

"No, he's been in the water with it like that for a few hours." Arthur looked again, tried not to think that it was _Merlin's_ lanky limb so injured. "The angle's wrong for it to have hit the bone, and it can't be deep enough to have damaged the main blood vessel there to the inside." It was an awkward, awful moment that Arthur thought – and maybe Gwaine did as well – that he would not have lived this long, had that been the case. He added, "Ride back the way we came, find one of the others. Get whatever you can in the way of supplies – food, water, clothing, medicine, his horse for an extra mount – and give orders that the rest of them are to return to Camelot. We'll take care of Merlin, then follow as soon as he's able."

Gwaine sat back on his heels, but didn't rise. "And will we?" he said evenly. Not disrespectfully, but seriously. "Take care of Merlin, _and_ bring him back to Camelot?"

Arthur knew what he was asking. Because what if doing one meant they couldn't accomplish the other. If Camelot was not safe for Merlin now that his secret was well on the way to out – and Arthur himself could not predict how his father would react if he told him the whole truth instead of shading another fabrication – if Merlin himself did not want to return. Arthur had given his word, and Merlin would be fugitive after sundown – and nowhere near reaching the safety of his home.

He'd crossed the lake. He'd headed not for the citadel, but for the coast. Gwaine was asking, would Arthur take him into the uncertainty of royal custody, release him to make his own way, or defy his father and bring Merlin to Low-croft.

"Inform the knights, they are not to wait on us," Arthur answered, holding Gwaine's gaze. Below and between them, Merlin fumbled for his hand, and clung, hopefully gaining clarity. "Have them report, it is our intention to return by sundown."

He watched Gwaine understand; the knight nodded with a reluctant quirk of acknowledgement, and pushed to his feet. "Be right back," he promised, pausing to unhook a water-skin from his saddle, and tossed it to Arthur.

Arthur caught and set it aside, looking down as Merlin dropped slightly to his back. Mostly clear-eyed, he curiously fingered the dampness of Arthur's trouser leg and boot. Gently Arthur disengaged the attachment of their hands, and reached for his belt knife.

"I'm sorry," Merlin blurted breathlessly, and a pang shot through Arthur to think the apology in reaction to the perceived threat of his movement.

"No, please," Arthur said, focusing on the hidden injury because shame ripped him apart from the inside to view Merlin's expressive vulnerability. "Please don't. My failures are not your fault."

He made a cut in the cloth, carefully and gently freeing the majority of the trouser material, leaving just the bit trapped by the arrow – having to hold himself against flinching whenever Merlin did. The flesh beneath was reddened and swollen; he hoped that was due to the bruising force of the blow, rather than infection.

"I shouldn't have come," Merlin panted, bracing himself on the forest floor to endure Arthur's examination.

"Merlin –" Arthur couldn't speak. Couldn't articulate the rare regret that his brave friend's first experience in his world should have been tragedy upon catastrophe. He sat back, blinking and folding his fingers together over one knee.

"Oh." Merlin tipped his head to look at Arthur, evidently realizing that no further tending was imminent. "No, I didn't mean – at _all_ , I meant – here. To the lake. I shouldn't have –"

Arthur opened his mouth to say, _Why didn't you tell me, if you needed this why didn't you ask me_ – and shut it again. It wasn't Merlin's fault, at all. Not the desire to come or the decision to do so alone, not Arthur's distraction with other issues or the distance he'd deliberately placed between them, that was meant to protect Merlin.

"The other morning," he said slowly, shifting to a more comfortable seat, "when I was sending the message, and you were coming in without your boots… you were coming from here."

Merlin's gaze shifted away from Arthur, to the thick canopy of summer leaves above them. He swallowed once and nodded, his head rubbing on the ground.

"Did you see him?" Arthur asked, that moment that morning clear in his memory, himself. "You didn't recognize him, did you?" Merlin looked at him again, lips pursed quizzically. "Gosyn was standing near us, right by the wall. Maybe close enough to overhear… I didn't think anything of it at the time. You didn't think he realized that you _knew_ , but if he did, if he followed you - he must have followed you… Merlin."

The younger man was pale and drawn, his blue eyes dark and large and intent. Arthur again regretted his loss of the knights' challenge. Not that Gosyn deserved the courtesy.

" _He_ called that order to shoot you," Arthur said gently. Not to excuse, but to explain. "I think my father would only have arrested you, prior to questioning. Gosyn's in custody now, charged with treason – the trial will probably begin as soon as they return to the citadel. Leon sent another witness from inside Havallach. I didn't want – I didn't mean –" His voice caught in his throat, and _hurt_.

Merlin lifted one arm, reaching for Arthur, who immediately grasped it in return, not really understanding. Not til Merlin's long slender fingers crawled past his, tugging him closer to wrap around his forearm. Arthur gripped him in return, an embrace of fighters and comrades.

"All right," Arthur said, finding his eyes stinging in an inexplicable and annoying way. "All right. We'll take care of your leg – and find you some clothes – and then decide where to go from there."

 **A/N: Apologies on the lateness of the chapter, especially after the cliffie I ended with last time. Spring break spent with my sister – 'nuff said.**

 **I anticipate two more chapters?...**


	20. Aid and Alliance

**Chapter 11: Aid and Alliance**

Merlin tried to lie as still as possible, the knee of his injured leg propped up slightly on his other; it hurt less than lying flat. Throbbing still, and flaring furiously if he so much as twitched, but he was content, now. The earth cradled him, the air blanketed him in comfort… and Arthur was with him.

And there was no trace of indecision in the human prince's expression, no hint of censure or disapproval. He hadn't led any of the knights to capture Merlin, instead his trousers and boots were damp as if he'd… Merlin remembered the invisible disturbance of the lake-water that had set him fleeing the dock, and wondered.

"Why did you come to the lake?" he asked, his voice little more than a whisper, in this position, and trying to use no muscles at all.

Arthur sat next to him within easy view, one knee let fall to rest on the ground, the other raised and bent to drape his arm over. The last few moments, his blue eyes had been fixed thoughtfully on the distance, but as Merlin spoke, the prince straightened attentively.

"I mean," Merlin added, swallowing with difficulty, "with the king, and… knights?"

"Long story," Arthur said ruefully, reaching to position the hard mouthpiece of the water-skin so Merlin could wet his mouth and throat without moving.

"Distract me," Merlin suggested breathlessly. "What of – Gwaine?" Had it been his imagination that the roguish knight his particular friend, had been present only moments earlier?

"He should be back soon," Arthur said, focused on the water-skin. Then he met Merlin's eyes, and a look of chagrin passed over his face. "Oh – no, he wasn't with us, Merlin. This morning, what happened? No, he stayed in Camelot to watch for the messenger from Leon. And Percival was in-quarters."

"He was on duty last night," Merlin remembered. It seemed longer ago than that, already. He recalled leaving the banquet, distracting the guards, walking the streets. Missing that sense of being watched… though evidently Gosyn had been watching Merlin in turn. "What did Sir Go- what did he tell you?"

Arthur set his jaw and answered reluctantly. "He said he'd heard a rumor, and noticed signs himself. A monster…"

Humans didn't like what they didn't understand. Merlin nodded, feeling dirt rub into his hair. He tipped his head back, opening his eyes wide to gaze at the tossing green-on-blue above him. Hoping the air would dry the moisture accumulating in his eyes before he embarrassed himself further. Monster. Yes, of course.

"I didn't even think," Arthur went on in quick desperation. "I didn't once consider… I thought you'd be in Gaius' apprentice room, asleep. When he said – when my father told me, the report of a _monster_ … Merlin, it didn't even occur to me to connect that with _you_."

"It's all right," Merlin told him hoarsely. The earth whispered to him of approaching steps – two horses, he thought. "I probably shouldn't have come out here. If it hadn't been him, it probably would have been someone else one of these days, seeing me and thinking…"

"It's because it's a _lake_ ," Arthur interrupted, his tone a shade more wry. He glanced up as Merlin both heard and felt the two horses halt, and a man's footsteps start – but he didn't look away from Arthur. "If we were at the sea-coast, no one would mistake you for anything but what you are."

"And what is that?" Merlin said, self-mockingly. Skinny, broken, naked…

"Prince of the ocean," Arthur finished, with an edge of royal pride.

If Merlin had been upright, his jaw might have dropped.

"Here we are," Gwaine said, interrupting the moment. "Doing a bit better, Merlin? I've managed to scavenge from the others a spare set of trousers, the remains of someone's breakfast, your missing boot, still wet, a bandage roll, and a flask of wine." As he shifted to a kneeling position over Merlin, Arthur cocked a skeptical frown at the knight who joined them. "For wound-cleaning," Gwaine enunciated with mild exasperation.

"That sounds like it'll hurt." Merlin attempted a bit of levity, nervous at the way his two friends were laying out supplies and focusing on his leg.

"Like the devil," Gwaine agreed cheerfully. "But nothing you can't handle. How the hell did this happen anyway, Arthur?"

"Gosyn must have followed him," Arthur said shortly. "Seen him in his true form – maybe connected that to the rumors at Havallach. Or maybe he overheard us talking the other morning and knew Merlin knew of his betrayal –"

Arthur hesitated briefly, and Merlin guessed what he'd stopped himself saying – _And I didn't._

"We should've told you," he said. "Told you it was Gosyn. I should've told you – about coming out here –"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur said. "You'll pull it, Gwaine?"

"Hold him down," Gwaine said, shifting lower and repositioning Merlin's legs.

Instinctively his body resisted them, as pain ignited again and spread, even as he tried to cooperate. He thought he might be shaking from the dread of the procedure, even knowing it was necessary and would benefit his eventual wellbeing.

Arthur caught his wrists and trapped them together, leaning over him to hold Merlin down with his own body. "We didn't know it was Merlin we'd find here," he concluded to Gwaine, who knelt to secure Merlin's knees. "We all saw him come out of the lake, and change back to human, and before anyone could say anything –"

Merlin, moving minutely to discover the bounds of Arthur's grip, heard unspoken words again – _before_ I _could say anything_ –

"Gosyn yells, _Fire_!" Arthur said grimly.

"Would that your father had let me kill him," Gwaine said, in the same tone.

Merlin opened his mouth to apologize again for the situation his carelessness had placed them all in, but Arthur's head was turned away, his attention down by Merlin's leg and Gwaine's hands. Fire waved through Merlin at the knight's first touch on the arrow, and sweat broke out all over his body.

A drop rolled down Arthur's temple also, and then the human prince's eyes were very close and intensely blue. "Deep breath."

Merlin couldn't breathe, Arthur was crushing him, he tried to inhale obediently anyway – and Gwaine pulled on the arrow.

Maybe gently, maybe steadily, maybe swiftly – but it felt like he was pulling the bone right out, with a pair of red-hot knives. Merlin's entire body seized; his eyes screwed shut and his spine arched away from the excruciating pain –

that went on –

and _on_ –

"Okay, it's out," Gwaine said – Merlin wanted to disagree, the arrow was _still-damn-there_ , pounded into him like surf on jagged shore-rocks, like hundreds of feet of thundering waterfall – "Gimme the wine."

"For him, right? Not you," Arthur said, a short attempt at humor. Merlin tried to breathe, to relax, to unclench his jaw and open his eyes – "Brace for cleaning," Arthur advised tersely.

Merlin's body bucked again, and he was quite certain he grunted, before locking his lungs closed against air. It felt like they were cleaning his wound with the sharpened edge of an oyster shell, scraping off layer after layer of his skin and flesh. He fought Arthur – fought both of them – tried to freeze his muscles, to see if that might help.

It didn't.

"Okay – okay," Gwaine gritted.

"Wrap it up quick," Arthur's voice commanded. "Tight but not too tight, that'll help stop the bleeding… Almost done, Merlin, I swear."

His body betrayed him, gasping a breath – and whimpering it back out. The intensity of the throbbing eased slightly and he opened his eyes. Initial blurring cleared as involuntary tears trickled down his temples. He breathed, and couldn't seem to stop, dragging in panting lung-fulls of breath, one after the next after the next.

"Well done, Merlin," Arthur said, as the weight of his friend's more muscular body retreated carefully.

It felt like he took Merlin's strength with him, all energy draining from his limbs and leaving them heavy and helpless. His two friends manipulated his leg – holding it up to wrap the cloth bandage, setting it down.

"He's stronger than he looks," Arthur said to Gwaine, sitting back and shaking out his arms before resting his hands on his thighs.

Gwaine glanced at Merlin's face, and grinned to meet his eyes. "Hells, yes."

Merlin felt anything but. It was all right, though, he thought hazily, as the world swung slowly round, and he let himself simply lie. They would take care of him.

"Rest a bit," Arthur said, with a brief sideways smile that somehow managed to convey pride. "Then we'll get clothes on you again, and –"

"Split straight through this pair of trousers," Gwaine contributed. "Can't bring him through the lower town and gates like this – the girls won't take _he's married_ for an answer."

Merlin didn't quite understand the teasing, but it reassured him that it was okay to make jokes, now. "And comb my hair?" he offered, and then Arthur's half-smile was a full grin. He closed his eyes to rest, to focus on evening out his breathing and wait for the hot pain in his leg to cool and die down a bit, listening to them murmur and move about.

"Yes, but _where_?" Gwaine said, more clearly. "Your father ordered you to bring him back."

Arthur's voice was quieter, and Merlin heard only part of what was said. "My father can… first responsibility is to Merlin… guarantee his safety… _his_ father."

The darkness rocked a bit, and steadied. They were trying to decide what to do, he thought, now that the king had seen him. His own plan of making his way to the coast required amending, though…

He realized the silence some moments after it had fallen, and twisted his head to see his two friends, standing near the heads of three saddles horses, both in troubled thought, by the look of it. And Merlin didn't know what to say.

Arthur noticed him, and returned to kneel beside him, offering a heel of bread, the water-skin in his other hand.

"Bread and water," Gwaine remarked, turning to busy himself at the saddle and lines of the foremost mount. "Prisoner's fare, but it's the best we've got for you, sorry."

"Is that what I am?" Merlin's hand trembled, taking the bread, and the lingering acute discomfort in his leg meant his stomach only wanted him to nibble at it. "A prisoner?"

A wrinkle appeared between Arthur's brows. "You haven't done anything wrong, Merlin," he said quietly. "It's true my father wants to talk to you, but –"

"About what?" Merlin asked, struggling up to one elbow to make swallowing easier. He noticed the white strips wound about his right thigh – somehow having his wound bound made it feel like he was safe.

"About Gosyn, and Havallach –"

"Aetlantys?" Merlin couldn't help interrupting.

"That is, of course, entirely up to you," Arthur stated, meeting his gaze without wavering. "If you decide it would be better for you and your people, to ride now for the coast and return home, I'll help you do it."

Merlin shivered, almost sending himself down flat on his back again. He wanted to ask Arthur if his father was the sort to keep him captive, for any reason – studying a specimen or showing off a trophy or even for ransom like Melwas. But he couldn't. Arthur's father, after all. And Arthur had been brave enough to tell Balinor of his status… Still, there were the visiting royals and nobility to consider, the rumors that might spread to the detriment of his people.

And Arthur. When he'd taken Merlin on board the _Medusa_ , he hadn't known that he was helping Merlin disobey his father and his king – but now here he was offering to do the same if Merlin asked.

His father had warned him to caution that he probably hadn't exercised as he should. But there was still Arthur's wedding – and the truth to tell about the traitor he'd overheard – and if he ever wanted to see Arthur again on peaceful terms, he probably needed to face this king. He doubted he could be as calm as Arthur, sitting damp on a slab in the highest tower of Aetlantys, eating their raw fish and sea-plants, meeting a king who'd called a storm because he blamed him for the kidnap of his son.

Merlin finished his bread, and fortified himself with a deep breath, before meeting Arthur's eyes. "Left my knife in that back bedroom," he said. "Will would never let me forget leaving another knife behind with you humans… Back to Camelot, then."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

They made it back to Camelot with an hour to spare before sundown.

Arthur in the lead, as was proper, and Gwaine's mount keeping pace with Merlin's. He glanced back once as they entered the lower town – Merlin sagged in the saddle, chin on his chest, swaying with the horse's gait, even as slow as they were going. But there wasn't any blood seeping through on the leg of the clean pair of borrowed trousers, and Gwaine beside him could ride casual and cocky as always, and still be split-second attentive to Merlin's needs.

He was truly proud of the younger prince. To survive an ambush - to endure the wound and their tending of it without complaint and rarely betraying involuntary pain - only to return to the stronghold where the threat originated. It was humbling to wonder, how much of Merlin's decision had been made because of _him_.

Once through the gate and into the courtyard of the citadel, Arthur glanced back again. Gwaine had a hold of Merlin's upper arm, a grim look on his face. Merlin's head bobbed up – his gaze caught Arthur's.

And he nodded, to encourage or reassure.

Before helping Merlin to mount and beginning the short but still too-long ride back, they'd discussed Arthur telling his father the truth. And even though Arthur couldn't guarantee what his father would do – tell anyone or keep the secret, act on the information in any way, or simply release Merlin after questioning – Merlin had shown every trust in Arthur's discretion. What to say, how to say it.

That was humbling, as well. And made Arthur nervous, to instinctively begin contingency plans, for if his father did _not_ react well, only to abort them as unhelpful, right now.

When Arthur faced forward again, it was to recognize the two figures hurrying down the main stair in the shadows of approaching twilight, within the high citadel walls. Percival in full armor – broad brow furrowed with concern – and Guievere in deep blue-purple silk, curly hair cascading over one shoulder.

Arthur was more aware than usual of the curious glances of those all around – knights, guards, servants, and not all belonging to Camelot. If anything had gotten out about the details of the morning's mission – or of Gosyn's arrest – at least it wouldn't look like Merlin had been returned forcibly to face incarceration as well. If any were interested enough in the physician's peasant nephew to speculate, Arthur hoped they'd remain far from the truth.

Percival was right at Arthur's stirrup when he dismounted. "You're meant to report to your father, first thing," the big knight informed him, but his eyes were past Arthur on the other two. "How is he? No one was saying anything, but –"

"Crossbow bolt to the right thigh," Arthur said. "Gwaine pulled it, cleaned and bandaged it."

"Gaius will want to have a look, anyway," Percival predicted, moving past Arthur to hold Merlin in the saddle with a casual hand while Gwaine dismounted. Arthur figured Gwaine could give Percival a fuller story, also; he signaled for one of the stable-hands to take the horses, and watched the two knights coax Merlin down.

He almost jumped when Gwen's hand slid into his. "What happened?" she said, her voice quiet but strung tight with emotion. "Is he all right?"

Merlin appeared less than aware of where he was or who he was with. He stumbled, was caught and held by Gwaine and Percival, who guided him toward the less-public side door and stair that would take them to the physician's chamber. Limping and swaying – but with Gwaine's reputation, some were sure to say, they'd only been in the tavern all day.

"He will be," Arthur promised her, turning to touch her cheek and press a kiss to her temple. "What have you heard? What did Percival tell you?"

"They couldn't find Merlin this morning," she said, distracted. "That your patrol to find a monster might have mistaken him…" Their three friends passed unsteadily from sight, and Arthur tucked her hand into his elbow to lead her up the stairs. She gathered her skirts in her other hand, climbing slowly. "We wondered if maybe it was the traitor, retaliating against Merlin as the only witness of his treachery, because he didn't know about the messenger from Leon…"

Arthur waited til they reached the top of the stair, and passed into a closed corridor, where he could keep an eye on who was near them, and how near. "You know about the traitor?"

"Gosyn told me." He gave her a sharp glance, but her eyes were clear and innocent. "He said, maybe it was nothing but suspicion – but Percival told me, Merlin was _sure_."

She didn't know _who_. His heart ached – how could he tell her?

"I still don't understand," she continued as they walked, "how on earth anyone could have found out about Merlin… except, you know, the other day when he was sick, I saw a patch of scales he let show on his hand. He'd done that before, in Havallach, he was having a nightmare and then there were gills as well…"

Arthur sighed, suddenly weary. Gwaine had said, _maybe it's harder for him to be away from his home than he let on…_

"Evidently Merlin's been going to swim in the lake these last few nights, as _himself_. Someone followed him, and deliberately mis-represented to my father, what Merlin is."

She'd pulled him to a stop in shock, but more for what he'd revealed than for realization of who had informed on Merlin to Arthur. He glanced up and down the corridor to gauge their level of privacy, and pulled her onward. They probably shouldn't be alone, behind closed doors, which meant remaining where they could be seen, but not overheard. And he needed to get to his father – sooner rather than later.

"We ambushed him," Arthur added grimly. "He was hurt, but not seriously. And in the argument that followed, after Gwaine arrived with news of another witness, the traitor confessed."

"So your father brought him back with the patrol, and you and Gwaine stayed with Merlin?"

He hummed corroboration, deciding to leave out Merlin's probably hellish swim, how and where they'd found him. "How was your day?"

Guinevere huffed and yanked at his elbow, but shook her head. "There were jokes about you going hunting without any of us, but honestly. I think they're mostly relieved and excited about our wedding tomorrow, and anticipating the journey home, it has been a bit delayed. My father arrived earlier this afternoon – everyone is at dinner now, but it's all private meals in chambers, because of tomorrow…"

Tomorrow. His wedding day. He couldn't summon the energy right now to be nervous; he thought it would feel rather a relief to do something that was _right_ for a change.

They'd reached the hall outside his father's quarters, the small receiving room adjoining his bedchamber where Arthur expected, he was expected. "I have something to tell you, later," he said, stopping out of hearing range of the guard outside the door, mute testimony to his father's presence. "Something difficult, but important."

Her eyes were large and dark and steady. "Can't it wait til tomorrow."

"No." It was said with regret. He hated to have to tell her at all, how wrong she'd been about Gosyn – how wrong he'd been, and Merlin had paid for it – he hated the timing, but at least she would be able to absorb the shock, and react, and sleep. And her wedding day would be a new day.

"I'll go check on Merlin, and keep my maid with me, later," she told him, anticipating the need for a chaperone for his visit. That made him tired, too, to think of such necessities continuing, rather than ending. But really, this whole situation could have gone _much_ worse.

"Thank you," he said, squeezing her hand and letting her go. "I'll see you in a bit."

"Good luck," she told him over her shoulder, quietly arch. Blue-purple silk swished as she turned to leave.

Arthur took a deep breath, and pushed open the double doors to his father's receiving chamber.

Almost, he'd expected to find Lord Thomas of Summarlynd in attendance as well, deep in discussion over the evidence condemning Gosyn, or debate over his attitude toward magic, Guinevere's exposure in the past, his awareness of her friendship with Merlin. But Uther sat alone, leaning against one arm of his chair, focused absently on the goblet he toyed with on the tabletop, half-eaten dinner discarded on pushed-back plate. But he alerted the moment his eyes rose to recognize Arthur.

"Report," he commanded. "Your shape-shifter friend?"

"Merlin's here," Arthur said. And for a moment, as his father released a small sigh of relief, wondered.

Perhaps the one witness from Havallach was enough, and Uther had rather not had to deal with Merlin at all, had preferred him to make good a permanent escape. Perhaps he feared Arthur would have aided a fugitive Merlin, and was reassured that his heir would not be so soft on a magic-user.

He added, "He took a bolt in the leg, but the wound wasn't serious. I believe Gaius is tending to him now; he was aware of your desire to question him and is amenable."

"The witness Leon sent was sufficient to convince me of Gosyn's guilt," Uther commented, "coupled with his own confession. I have in mind to turn our former knight over to Lord Thomas for punishment. As he is a native of Summarlynd, and Lord Thomas – you've heard he arrived today? – is fully aware of the situation as well."

Arthur bit his lip to control his reaction. A short laugh or even a grin on the darker side of wolfish might be allowed him among the knights, but Uther considered himself above emotion, and required the same in Arthur's behavior. "I concur, such a resolution would be eminently fair."

A silence fell, while Arthur endured a strange sort of curious scrutiny from his father. If Uther was willing to make the judgment on Gosyn without Merlin's input, maybe…

"You must have wondered, why I ordered you to the search for Emrys this morning," Uther said finally. "Rather than restricting your movements, after your outburst at the lake, and entrusting the retrieval of the boy to a senior knight."

He'd given it some thought on the ride home. "I did," he responded, resisting the urge to shift his weight. "And then I realized, it was a test. You wanted to see what I would do, given the freedom."

Uther's gray eyebrows rose fractionally, but his expression remained neutral, inviting Arthur to continue.

"The thing is," Arthur went on deliberately, "my return with Merlin proves more about his character, than mine. I was willing to assist his escape, and I made that clear to him. It was his choice to return. To answer your questions, at the least."

"To submit to my judgment?" Uther said softly.

"Conditionally," Arthur corrected firmly. "He is not one of our citizens, and he came to Camelot on my invitation and contingent upon my promise of protection. Something that I take _very_ seriously."

The king pushed his chair back from the table. Rose, and rounded the corner, pacing slowly closer. His expression was disbelief mingled with mild disgust; Arthur stood his ground.

"Where does he come from, then?" Uther demanded, his voice deceptively – dangerously – mild. "How do you know him so well. And when – exactly – did you decide to _lie_. To me. For him."

"Two and a half years ago," Arthur said, unflinching.

His father drew back minimally; Arthur watched him calculate – remember – realize. "That voyage," Uther said. "The sea monster threatening our ships."

Arthur nodded. "We would have had no chance against that thing, without Merlin. He saved my life. He risked his own. He made our victory possible."

A wrinkle appeared between his father's brows, and his lip curled slightly. "How?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin was floating. Figuratively, of course, on the backwash of whatever bitter herbal draught Gaius had given him for the pain of the wound, but it was good enough for now.

His leg still throbbed, warm and distant. But the physician's opinion was, he should be able to be on his feet – for a short while – in time for Arthur's wedding in twenty-four hours. That is, if he was still _allowed_.

The pillows they'd propped him with in the main-chamber patient's bed made him comfortable; the fire made him drowsy. The memory of Gwaine's laughter and Percival's little-boy grin and the light-flower scent of Lady Gwen made him smile. Contentment and quiet, now that his friends had taken leave for the night, drew him toward slumber. Gaius was still puttering around his work-table, keeping him from deep sleep, but it was companionable. He'd spent a good part of the day resting, and it wasn't late yet.

In excusing herself with one last wish for his continued healing, Gwen had mentioned she had her father newly-arrived to keep company, but that she expected to see Arthur yet this evening. Merlin hadn't said anything, but he rather felt the same way. Almost.

Someone would come, he thought. Maybe not Arthur, if he was going to be with Gwen, but in the few evening hours they'd been back, no one had said anything of Gosyn or Merlin's testimony, even to have him write and sign it to take before the king.

But that was why he was here, wasn't it? To prove trustworthiness…

He felt rather than heard, the opening scrape of the door, a low male voice drawing Gaius into the brief murmur of conversation. The old physician's shuffling steps leaving the room, lingering on the landing at the top of the stair beyond. Merlin drifted, only vaguely aware, and the return of one set of footsteps didn't alert him.

It was the silence, oddly enough, that did.

He opened his eyes, faintly puzzled, trying to work out what was wrong. Then turned his head slightly on the pillow, the better to see the whole room – and the king.

Merlin stared blankly. Black-clad, arms crossed over the pair of silver medallions hung on his chest by chains around his neck, Uther leaned backwards against Gaius' work-table, black boots crossed at the ankle. The old physician was nowhere to be seen, and the king was unaffected by Merlin's return to consciousness. He said nothing as Merlin gaped, only watched him with a careful sort of scrutiny.

Oh, but – the _king_.

Merlin shoved his elbows under him, twisted to try to clamber up from the patient bed. His right leg wouldn't cooperate, stiffened in resting, and he couldn't quite hide the flinch from Arthur's father and the most powerful man in the kingdom.

"Don't get up," Uther said evenly, unmoving. "Gaius was very clear that his instructions for your recovery were to be followed. No matter what."

"Thank you," Merlin said breathlessly, almost a question. And also, "I apologize for – my indisposition –" he waved a hand at his blanket-covered body – "the deception of the past weeks, please believe I _never_ anticipated –"

"My son claims," Uther said, in the same soft, even tones as before, somehow effective in snapping Merlin's mouth shut, "that you hold the same rank as he, in your home kingdom."

Merlin made to object; he was sure there weren't nearly as many people, and only a single king. "Oh, I don't think it's –"

"Crown prince," the king went on, "of Aetlantys."

Merlin drew in a single, steadying breath, and held Uther's bedrock gaze. "Yes, my lord."

A moment more Uther studied him. Merlin wondered, if he was an ordinary citizen of the ocean, would Uther treat him differently, speak to him at all. If it affect the outcome of the situation vitally. Did it occur to Uther to consider what he would do to reclaim his son, in similar circumstances, and was the uncertainty of the sea-king's possible reaction the only thing staying Uther's hand from moving against Merlin.

"Arthur told me the stories of the origins of your kind. Humans once." The king spoke right over Merlin's repetition of his earlier respectful affirmative, "I don't know whether that makes this worse."

Merlin carefully lifted his right leg over the side of the bed, followed it with his left to at least sit upright, though the blanket was skewed and his feet bare on the wood-plank floor. "Perhaps it was preferable to some," he said deliberately, "to perish rather than endure the touch of magic when our island was destroyed, but _we_ are grateful for our salvation." The king grunted, and Merlin left a subject probably impossible to be agreed upon, anyway, though the acceptance of his identity would probably influence the king's decision in the end. "Arthur told me you wished to speak of Havallach and Sir Gosyn."

"He's been stripped of his title," Uther informed him, mild but shrewd. "Arthur informed you of the second witness, I presume."

"Yes, but –" Oh. Whatever that person had to say, had been substantial and definite enough, and – Arthur had said something about a confession, too, hadn't he?

"I wish to speak to you about Arthur," the king said, uncrossing his arms to brace his hands on the edge of the table.

"Arthur?" Merlin said dumbly, not following. It was possible the distracting throbbing in his leg and whatever pain alleviation remedy Gaius had given him, took more than just the edge off his sense of clarity. He hoped he wasn't going to make this mess worse, for anyone, through clumsiness or carelessness.

"My son," Uther said, condescending in reminder, as if Merlin had forgotten. "My only son."

"What about him?" Merlin said.

"Why are you here." Uther leaned forward slightly, his gray eyes just that much harder and more opaque.

"He invited me." Merlin could not figure, what the king was trying to get at. "The wedding."

"Why?"

"Because – because I invited him to mine, this spring?"

Uther's intensity lessened a bit, in his surprise. "You're married?" Merlin nodded, and the king looked him over again, as if for the first time – maybe surprised that Merlin's people did something so _civilized_. "You mean to claim, you have _no other motive_ in coming to Camelot, than to join the celebration of an acquaintance's marriage. _No other reason_ to hide and lie than simple fear of discovery."

"Um," Merlin said, feeling his face heat, and Uther seized on his hesitation. Merlin straightened, raising a hand in entreaty. "My lord – hear me out. We are raised to hide in self-defense, to fear humans above all else. That we would be killed as soon as seen, the rest of us hunted on one glimpse, an unfortunate accident – if we were lucky. More than death, to fear capture – not only because of the rest of a life spent in torture and humiliation, but the exposure to every one of our people. The exponentially increased danger, that the same would happen to a friend or relative if the humans knew of our existence."

He paused for breath, shivering in the intensity of his emotion, the uncertainty of whether this king intended any of those ills – what he might do to Merlin, what Merlin might do in reaction. If Merlin would be released because he was his father's son, but a less-valuable mer-person sought for this very sort of captivity.

"When I first saw Arthur's ship, I thought only of sacrificing it entire to ensure our victory against the kraken. I watched – I noticed Arthur and his preoccupation – curiosity lured me from hiding and Sirs Percival and Gwaine captured me. But. Instead of fear or hate, they – and Arthur – showed interest. Instead of _keeping_ me, they tried to communicate. They were ready to return me to the water because their focus was on the threat of the monster sinking ships – not profit or prestige. I stayed with them for the sake of a cooperative effort against the kraken, and when this –" he gestured at his legs – "happened, they showed me kindness and compassion. They treated me… with respect, and as an equal.

"I came here because Arthur is my friend. I came here because I have this hope that someday, _someday_ , we need no longer hide from you, but help. Even if you need nothing of us, nor we of you, at least the possibility of friendship between our peoples, is worth the effort. And the risk."

The king exhaled into Merlin's trembling silence, and knowing Arthur's expressions did not help him to read Uther.

"And the magic?" he said, neutrally.

"Elemental affinities," Merlin answered, risking honesty. "Less than half my people have a talent of any significance. One in twenty, roughly, who have a dual-affinity."

"And yourself?" Uther said, points of candlelight glittering in his eyes. "Arthur has told me of your sea-battle. And your exploits at Havallach."

"What else do you wish to know, sire?" Merlin was tired; he hoped he would not disgrace himself and his people, passing out in the middle of this unexpected audience with the king.

"This morning, when you were – wounded." Merlin didn't understand, and after a moment, Uther went on. "Most creatures will fight back, if threatened."

"Most men will fight in defense of themselves and the ones they love, also," Merlin said quietly.

"Why didn't you?"

Merlin let himself relax his stiffly-attentive posture, slowly and surreptitiously. "I didn't wish you harm, any of you," he said. "You're not my enemies. I only wished to escape harm, myself."

Uther eyed him. "Not enemies," he repeated, and there was disdain in his tone. "Allies, then? Potentially? Your father must put a great deal of faith in your skill in diplomacy."

Merlin wanted to laugh. "It's possible he also places a great deal of trust in the honor of your son, as representative of the humans _we_ are unfamiliar with. Sire, I didn't come as envoy. I don't carry my king's political aspirations and expectations. I only came to see Arthur and experience his world. And maybe to see if more relationships between our people might be possible in future."

Gray brows rose fractionally, cynically. "And, after all?"

It had been an eventful visit. Difficult, painful – exciting, enlightening. "Not every man is Arthur," he said carefully. "But not every man is Gosyn or Melwas, either. My hopes are intact."

"But not your body." Uther pointed to Merlin's leg. "Your father will hold us accountable."

Merlin held his breath. It was a question, it asked, for more than just a single injury. For offense, for any decision less than complete freedom. He did not bother mentioning, he hoped his next transformation would complete his healing, before he faced his family – father – king.

He said, "My father is reasonable."

Oh-so-careful, not to stress the first word of his response.

Uther uncrossed his feet and pushed himself slowly upright. "I can see why my son is intrigued, by you and your people," he remarked. "Well, Merlin Emrys. We are grateful for the aid of your people, two years ago – and for yours personally, this week at Havallach. There shall be no official addition to the rumors surrounding these events, or this morning, and we will share your hope that nothing further damages potential relations between our people."

Merlin understood, it was a warning also – and his own father might not have phrased it much differently. He'd heard half a dozen variations also; the other royals had discussed the mysterious maybe-not-human shape-shifter Lady Gwen steadfastly refused to give further detail on, without concern for him in his guise of physician's nephew. As many stories might surround this morning's nearly-catastrophic incident, but those who knew _mer-person_ , would remain the crew of the Medusa, increased only to include Uther himself. So far.

"My reign has been characterized by mistrust of magic, and those whose nature includes its use," the king added, without apology. "I maintain the efficacy of that policy, but I appreciate also my son's right to decide differently, when he sits the throne. Whether that will support or undermine _his_ reign… is not in my hands."

"Yes, my lord." Merlin understood this as well. Any more official alliances would be made with Arthur. He wondered whether it would set Uther's mind more at ease, or not, if Merlin would to assure him of the unwavering support of Aetlantys, at least, for Arthur's reign.

Uther gave him a short nod, and a last look-over. Merlin wasn't steady on his feet, healthy and well-dressed like the other human prince – like he would have preferred to be, for this talk – but he honestly didn't care, at this point. He'd take freedom and safety over pride, any day.

"You have our wishes for a swift return to health," Uther said, turning to the door.

And probably a swifter return to the sea – out of sight and out of mind, and Merlin had no illusions that the king would ask Arthur casually over dinner if he'd heard from Merlin, lately. But he didn't allow amusement into his smile. "Thank you, Your Highness."

 **A/N: To clarify. I totally think Uther's ethics depend on what he thinks he can get away with, in any 'verse. In this case, Merlin's magic plus Merlin's status as sole heir of a kingdom that can probably still cause trouble for Camelot's trade, plus Arthur's unyielding stance on the situation, mean that Uther finds it politically expedient to nod and smile and keep the secret. For now. Even though I don't intend a third story.**


	21. All's Well That Doesn't End

**Chapter 12: All's Well That… Doesn't End**

The weather on the day of Arthur and Guinevere's wedding ceremony was just as beautiful as that the day they'd attended another, in a rowboat.

Clear skies, warm sun – though Arthur had to be content with those rays streaming in the windows of colored glass that formed much of the outer wall of the grand hall. He didn't think his father would welcome the suggestion to move the proceedings out-of-doors, either, though it made him smile to remember what he and Merlin had said about the attendance of such functions. _The whole kingdom is coming, and you haven't got a room big enough…_

Here and now, the guests were packed like salt fish in a barrel. Arthur stood near the steps of the dais, appreciating the breathing space he was afforded at the front of the room.

He amused himself glancing over the heads of the milling, waiting crowd, toward the vaulted ceiling high overhead, trying to calculate how many more could have fit, were his people able to move through their air the way Merlin's people moved through the water. Merlin himself, Arthur was amused to see, was on the edge of the aisle opened down the center of the crowd to admit the bride. The blue of his new jacket went well with the darker pair of fine trousers Arthur had made sure the knights would procure for their friend. The sea-prince stood anonymous but unique, weight on one leg – and two knights and a physician beside and behind him to make sure no weakness or pain caused an incident. Although, if the younger man had combed his hair this time, Arthur could not tell.

Merlin turned from watching the closed doors – those not engrossed in conversation with a neighbor watched either Arthur or the doors – at that moment, to meet Arthur's gaze. His grin spread wide and unmistakable, even at half the length of the hall, and he gave Arthur a firm nod.

And in spite of the myriad gazes upon him, Arthur returned it. Almost he laughed out loud at the thought of minor lords' daughters and merchants' wives floating about in their fashionable gowns and elaborate hair-dressing. The royalty at the front of the crowd had a bit more elbow-room than anyone else, as much for concern for Vivian's complaints about crushed gown-fabric, as for their various-liveried guards' protection, Arthur thought.

It occurred to him that he'd forgotten to ask if either Mithian or Elena had entered talks of betrothals – Olaf would keep Vivian from such as long as possible, and Baldyr had no interest in _shackling himself_ , as he put it. Guinevere would probably know about the two princesses, though…

Maybe it was nerves. But he didn't feel nervous, only confident and satisfied. They'd only be repeating the promises they'd agreed to, months ago at a smaller, quieter betrothal. There would be no ribald jokes or sly insinuation, nudges and winks when he and Guinevere retired early and together, no morning-after speculation to dread. They could drink as much or as little as they wanted tonight – and when they finally came together, in several months' time, it would be worth the wait.

He was already planning it to be as private as possible. No one else would know, no one but him and –

The doors opened, and there she was, and his heart was pounding though he'd only seen her a few hours ago, and it wasn't _nerves_. Gorgeous in red velvet to symbolize the house of Pendragon that this marriage joined her to, her hair in ringlets and white flowers, natural as though she'd fallen asleep in a field of daisies, and a dozen of the tiny blossoms had contrived to remain with her when she rose. His lady entered the sudden hush of the room on her father's arm with her head bowed demurely…

Lord Thomas had elected to tell her the traitor's identity himself, the previous evening. It was a relief to Arthur to recognize the wisdom in that – both Thomas and Guinevere had longer familiarity with Gosyn in Summarlynd than he did, and maybe Thomas felt as though he carried some blame to apologize for, also. Probably Guinevere had found it easier to express shock-disbelief-grief with her father, then calm to _it's-all-right_ with Arthur as her intended and one of the agents of her rescue, this morning in the clear light of day. The traitor himself, Arthur understood, would leave Camelot's dungeon in Lord Thomas' custody, and whatever happened after they reached Summarlynd again… good riddance.

Five steps into the room, Guinevere lifted her head, and he forget every one of his other thoughts.

Solemn, regal, beautiful. By heaven and earth, a _queen_. He could not have chosen better, for himself or for his kingdom, and he had never been more certain of anything in his life. Even so, he found it hard to breathe normally.

Maybe, because he knew he wasn't worthy of her. And why was she still walking towards him? Didn't she know how flawed he was, the mistakes he'd made –

Father and daughter reached the dais. Guinevere lingered, her cheeks touched with pink and her eyes shy of his, as Lord Thomas stepped forward to clasp Arthur's hand.

"Endeavor to deserve her," the older man said, the dark eyes which his daughter had inherited serious but kind.

"I will," Arthur said, as much a promise as the one he intended to speak to Guinevere.

Lord Thomas stepped back, gesturing permission, and Arthur reached for her, aware of Lord Geoffrey moving forward from the other side of the room, Uther ascending the dais to take his throne where he'd oversee the ceremony.

And she came to him.

Geoffrey began, "Friends and allies, we come together on this day to witness the union of Prince Arthur Pendragon and Lady Guinevere of Summarlynd by the ancient and sacred rite of handfasting…"

Her hand in his was small and warm and strong, and it didn't matter to her that his was hard and calloused; he never wanted to let it go. She glanced up at him, shy and uncertain – then with confident love blooming and budding and he almost kissed her right there, before it was time.

That urge didn't leave him, all night. And he indulged it, as often as she let him.

Though it did give way, after the sit-down meal part of the banquet, to an entirely different urge, centered on a different person.

Good food and better wine and Guinevere's hand in his and her voice in his ear. Vivian – irritated that she was not the center of attention – had already retired; Baldyr, Mithian, and Elena entertained themselves with the various knights, for various reasons. Uther and the other kings had withdrawn slightly to converse with only vague supervisory care for the other guests.

And the one unacknowledged royal. Gaius had given up his seat for Merlin - the only indication Arthur had gathered, that the young man was less than completely hale.

There had been toasts. Many, to him and Guinevere. To their guests, the bride's father, the knights that had rescued her.

Arthur wanted to rise in his place at the head table, call for everyone's attention, and toast Merlin. _Ladies and gentlemen, one of my best friends. A prince I hold in the highest regard – wise and compassionate and brave – he saved not only my life, but the life of the woman I love, my wife the Lady Guinevere – with no thought of reward or benefit or advantage or accolade… I drink to Merlin Emrys, crown prince and heir of Aetlantys._

He shifted in his seat, wondering whether he could get away with toasting Gaius, instead. Speaking broadly enough about that years-old sea-voyage and Gaius' tending of Guinevere this week, to arouse no suspicions, but his closest knights – and Merlin himself – would know exactly what he was saying. _Care and concern and aid and friendship have been invaluable… wouldn't be here today without you_ … though probably Gaius would not appreciate the surprise and attention, and the possibility that someone might see through the subterfuge might make Merlin nervous, after all.

Arthur lifted his goblet, paused deliberately, then drank.

Because he couldn't. Because Merlin wanted – needed – the secrecy. And Arthur had to quell his own inclination to give tribute to the pride of accomplishment, glory of achievement, display of skill and prowess – to render the honor deserved, though it wasn't his own… He had to be humble, as well.

Guinevere leaned closer, evidently catching the direction of his thoughts, or at least his gaze. "He looks like he's doing well – he looks happy."

Arthur hummed in agreement. It really was too bad Merlin couldn't have his own wife seated next to him… but it wouldn't be long til he was back in the sea again, with her, where he belonged. "Come with me."

Others were standing, moving about. Though Arthur and Guinevere as the bridal pair gathered a good bit of attention to rise and leave the table, it wouldn't be thought odd or inappropriate. Slowly – greeting those they met along the way, returning expressions of gratitude for their well-wishes – Arthur led his lady around the room til they reached the table where the court physician had ceded his place to his nephew, a straight-backed, clear-eyed – tousle-headed - peasant clad in royal blue velvet.

Merlin was on his feet, turning carefully to face them, grinning in the purest pleasure – as if the slights and wounds and fear and illness and exhaustion of the past week had been puppies and ladybugs, rather. Gaius glanced over his shoulder with concern that faded, on seeing Arthur, and shifted to give them a bit of privacy, without the appearance of exclusivity that might be curious, under the circumstances and given the rumors.

"How's your leg?" Arthur said.

"Can't wait to get rid of it," Merlin returned impishly, then grabbed Guinevere's hand. This time he kissed it with enthusiasm, rather than shaking it, to her amused surprise. "Congratulations, my lady. May every happiness be yours. Even though you're stuck with him, now."

"Merlin," Arthur warned, though he couldn't stop his own grin, and pushed Merlin's shoulder with the goblet he still carried in his right hand.

"Hey, be careful," Merlin protested, brushing down the soft material. "I was told not to get this dirty – it was a gift from a very good friend."

"It looks wonderful on you, Merlin," Guinevere told him with sweet sincerity, and added, over his repeated thanks, "It really is your color."

"I'll have to come back so I can wear it again, then," Merlin said lightly.

"Merlin," Arthur said, to recapture his attention and insert a bit of seriousness into the banter, "Emrys. My lord." That did it; Merlin's blue eyes widened. "Thank you, my friend. For coming, for joining us, for helping to make this possible. For your courage and your sacrifice –"

Gaius, who'd probably heard every word they said, hovering on the edge of the conversation, understood. The old man immediately bent to retrieve Merlin's goblet from the table, and thrust it into his hand. And maybe the mer-people never did this sort of thing, but Merlin had heard and drunk half a dozen toasts that night.

"To friends," he suggested, without hesitation.

In the same heartbeat, Arthur added, "And allies."

"Now and always." Merlin grinned, and lifted the cup to his lips as Arthur –and Guinevere - did, sealing their vow.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The blue velvet jacket hung in the wardrobe in Arthur's room, awaiting _next time_.

The memory of parting hung in Merlin's mind – Arthur gripping him tight, slapping his back, then stepping back to twine his arm around the lady Gwen. Oh - princess now, as Freya was, though Merlin rather thought she'd resist the pomp of the title and position as Freya did.

It made him long for his own wife as they traveled, even more than the cool dim wet of the sea.

"Tell me when you're coming," Merlin had said in the courtyard yesterday morning, unwilling to say goodbye and _wonder_. "The hot springs, yes? Tell me when."

"Six months?" Arthur suggested, and there was a twinkle in his eyes that Merlin didn't understand. Gwen seemed to; it widened her eyes and pinked her cheeks.

"Perfect," Merlin said. That would give him and his people time to organize accommodations for human guests. "It's fantastic there in winter."

Horses, but not saddles, he remembered, on the ride to the coast.

"Care to race?" Gwaine had asked.

"Only if it's with my own legs," Merlin groaned, shifting in his seat.

Percival grinned over one wide shoulder, remembering as they all did the condition of Merlin's right leg, specifically. "Next time?"

Finally on the dock, Merlin could hardly concentrate on keeping his balance on the narrow boards – not easy when his leg was still stiff and sore - for the damp salt breeze that was so much _better_ than the air around Havallach or the lake. Lancelot stood waiting on the end, the longboat and two rowers Merlin recognized as long-time crewers bobbing on the water below him.

As he neared them, Merlin turned to look back at the two knights – one very large, the other with long dark hair – and no one else even close, on the shore below the town. They each raised a hand, and Merlin waved back.

Then balanced himself with a hand on Lancelot's shoulder, to work his feet free of his boots. "Hope I haven't kept you from a trip," he said to the captain.

"Not at all," Lancelot said. "You had a good time?"

"I will have stories to tell," Merlin told him, loosening the laces at the neck of his shirt, "all year. Or – six months at least, til I see Arthur again. Keep these for me, will you?" Easing the material past the shoulder-harness and knife-sheath beneath his left arm, he shoved his shirt into Lancelot's uncomprehending hands, and began to let down his trousers.

"Can't you wait til – what are you doing, I thought we were sailing you back?" The two crewers turned their heads away, snickering; Lancelot accepted Merlin's trousers, as he began unwinding the bandage around his thigh. "What happened to your – hells, Merlin!"

"It's fine," he reassured his friend, ignoring the reddened puckering of the wound, himself.

Merlin couldn't wait a second longer – not diving, so much as just leaning off the dock. He relished the feel of cool salty water cleaving around his body. _Flash_ – and he was himself again. He laughed out loud, bubbles tickling his face, tail whole and strong and scaled. One flick sent him to the bottom, where he slid along the sand, digging his fingers in and releasing his hands-full. Lifting his face to the wide spreading sea, he called in his own language – though he rather hoped no one was close enough to hear – " _I'm back! I'm back_!"

A hundred ripples brought as many messages, shivering down his nerves, dancing and calling and – he surfaced, tossing his head to fling water and hair away from his face.

"Merlin," Lancelot said from above him, amused consternation.

"Sorry," he said breathlessly, thrilled at the feel of the sea and the comfort of being back in his own form. "Couldn't wait. I'll sail with you another time, yeah?"

"As your majesty desires," Lancelot said, mildly facetious.

Dyn-emris rolled his eyes and rose slightly to wave again at the two knights, who'd started down the dock, probably concerned at his change of plans. "Tell them I'm all right, I'll see them in six months, maybe, if not before? Tell them, there's no leg injury if there's no leg, right?"

"I will – take care!" The sight of Lancelot at the end of the dock, raising a farewell salute, blurred as Dyn-emris stroked with both hands to submerge himself.

Then twisted and propelled himself forward at top speed. There was absolutely nothing in the human world to compare to this. Cool blue dim sliding swiftly past him, sunlight sparkles breaking on the waves several fathoms above. He felt strong and agile and – invincible, somehow – down here. Free, and clean.

A day and a half it took him, to get back to the grand silent submerged city, though it would have taken longer aboard-ship. He didn't mind a moment of it, exercising muscles he'd missed, resting wonderfully weary on the surface to see _all_ the sky at once.

He thought, the next time he was in Camelot, he'd have to talk to Gaius about the possibility of recreating the transformation spell so that Arthur could join him in his realm – if his courage and his father would allow. One, Dyn-emris was sure of – the other, not so much. But only for a day or so, this business of _weeks_ was right out.

It wasn't Will he met first, stationed at the outermost point of the city as guard. So, good thing he'd gotten all of his childishly ecstatic twists and flips and spirals out of his system before he arrived.

"The prince!" he heard the call go up, echoed by others further into the city. "Dyn-emris has returned!"

And if he'd thought it was a crowd in the hall for Arthur's wedding… He angled his course upward, for the clearer water above the buildings resting on the seafloor. Some of the people ventured closer to cheer and call greetings, but he didn't stop til he met Will. Warned a pair of heartbeats before his friend attempted a broadside, he had to roll to avoid the hit, grappling in the muddy-orange embrace.

"Took your damn time, didn't you?" Will managed, trying to pin his hold to express his affection and delight to see Dyn-emris again. "Here I was thinking I should come and get you – and wondering if you'd _decided_ not to come back."

"Never!" Dyn-emris declared, slipping out of each of Will's attempts, not really focused on besting him. "Long story, though…"

" _M!"_

Then he was able to break away, and put on a spurt of speed, nearly broadsiding Freya himself, except for the extra flick he gave his tail at the last minute, sending them into a spin that twined their tails and wrapped her hair around the right side of his face and neck. She clung and every one of her scales whispered against his; she was laughing or maybe crying. Both, possibly.

"I missed you," he said, and it was the same time as she told him the same thing.

"I worried," she admitted, her lips brushing his ear, her fingers combing into his hair. He shivered at the subtle scratch of her long purple nails on his scalp.

"I know. I'm sorry – but see, I'm fine."

"My turn?" another voice interrupted, calm and gentle. Dyn-emris had only time to twitch in response, before his mother's arms were around his body and Freya's both.

"Mother," he said, freeing an arm to hug her back. "It was fabulous, you have no idea – the animals, and the plant life – I have so much to tell –"

"Dyn." He swirled from the dual embrace as his mother and wife released him without retreating, and he faced his king. Balinor didn't fight his smile as he joined them, putting his gray-scaled hand on Dyn-emris' shoulder, a weight welcomed the more for having been missed. "Safe and whole?"

He thought his father was probably asking for more than his heir's well-being, though his presence proved much. "Yes, my lord. King Uther Pendragon, the prince's father, knows of me – of us, and our home – but has accepted my alliance with Arthur." Mostly. And Dyn-emris' sheer high spirits couldn't help adding, "At least he won't make waves about it."

Freya's giggle was a stream of bubbles that tickled his neck and gave him ideas. Hunith snorted delicately, and Balinor tightened his grip as he laughed out loud.

"Welcome home, son," he said. "Hope you're planning on staying a good long while."

Freya murmured, her arms creeping about his ribs again, "About the hot springs?"

"Ah," he said. "Yes. Father, about the hot springs – I have a suggestion."

 **A/N: So this is it for this one! Thanks very much to everyone who favorited/followed – and especially those who reviewed (it helps with motivation, it honestly does!) I'm not saying I won't be doing a third part to this, but… it's** _ **way**_ **down the list of priorities.**

 **Next, I'm planning on uploading a second chapter to "About Time", a sort of 'Merlin's reaction to Arthur's return', in about a week or so. After that, idk. It might be helpful to know whether the readers would rather see a sequel to "Refined by Fire" (dealing with material from the Aithusa episode, as well as added "Lady of Shalott" elements), or something** _ **new**_ **… ?**


End file.
